The Adventure of the Grasping Ghost
by Beth Einspanier
Summary: Sherlock Holmes investigates reports of a lecherous spirit haunting a country bed-and-breakfast... and he can't quite seem to avoid a certain young woman.  [FINISHED!] R&R!
1. Dual Prologues

The Adventure of the Grasping Ghost  
  
a narrative duet by Beth Einspanier  
  
Disclaimers: Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and related characters are not mine, with the exception of Miss Emily Cartwright, who is. Any characters that I have borrowed for the course of this fanfiction will be returned in close to the same condition as I found them, though what happens between Mr. Holmes and Miss Cartwright is none of my business. All rights reserved.  
  
Author's note: In this story I will try to alternate the narration between Holmes and Em, in a similar fashion to my previous fic, "The Detective and the Diplomat" - hence, a "narrative duet". The narrators will be indicated at the top of each section. There may be some fluff in this fic, though I'll try to keep it down to a discreet minimum. Consider yourself warned.  
  
Author's other note: This story chronologically follows "The Detective and the Diplomat" and may contain references to and spoilers from the earlier story.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
"Really, Holmes," Watson chided, "She's half your age."  
  
This was not entirely accurate - not that Watson paid excessive attention to facts in the sensationalised accounts that he sent to the Strand. Hyperbole, it seemed, was a writer's best friend.  
  
"You're acting like I'm some lovesick suitor trying to win her over with charm and affection," I replied tartly, examining my nails with what I hoped was a sufficient air of indifference to the topic, "two qualities for which you know very well I am not famous. I believe you are simply imagining something that does not exist, and it's getting rather tiring. I would like for you to drop it." I was not in the mood to discuss the matter any further, for my ribs (injured during a case in a faraway city a few months earlier) had not yet entirely ceased to ache.  
  
Said topic, of course, was a young lady of my acquaintance, one Miss Emily Cartwright, whom Watson seemed to think had quite turned my head. Of course, the very idea was absolute rot - the day that simple lust brought on by a pretty face overtakes the precision of my mind is the day that Watson leaves medicine once and for all and takes up professional dart-playing.  
  
This is not, of course, to say that Miss Cartwright - or Emily, as she has insisted I call her - is an unattractive young woman. Though she generally wears her molasses-brown hair in a proper chignon or even a French twist, I have had occasion (though not on purpose) to see it loose, and the image has, strangely, stayed with me till now. Her build is slender and finely-boned, but woe betide anyone who thinks her overly delicate for it - this, of course, has included me. In addition, she has proven her intelligence more than once, possessing a level of rationality keener than is representative of her sex, and she never ceases to surprise me.  
  
She also has managed to drive me up the wall more than once, for despite her keen mind she is also rather hot-tempered and capricious, and not the sort to give up without a fight, either physically or verbally. The last time I saw her, in fact, she still bore the fading marks of a split lip, testament to an encounter we'd had with a crooked deliveryman.  
  
"Holmes, are you even listening to me?" Watson broke into my train of thought. In the course of my reflections I had managed to tune him out briefly, something which never ceases to annoy him.  
  
"Yes," I replied, "And I think you're being silly."  
  
"If I'm being so silly, why haven't you opened any of her letters?"  
  
I allowed my gaze to briefly regard the small stack of unopened envelopes resting benignly on the corner of the mantel. There were five of them, addressed in her elegant script (Fountain pen, fine brass nib, black India ink, slightly smudged from the heel of her dominant left hand briefly resting on the wet ink) and sealed (teal green sealing wax - I could probably hunt down the vendor if I cared to do so - there were only three vendors that I knew of who sold this peculiar shade), with the topmost envelope (fine-quality paper with a medium cotton content) lightly scented (predominantly lilac, with perhaps a hint of jasmine). Why should I open them? I could determine practically everything from the sealed envelopes.  
  
No – I must be honest. I could determine everything but a rational reason not to open them. They'd sat on the mantel (I thought it slightly obscene to impale them on the jack-knife along with the rest of my correspondence) with all the quiet menace of Pandora's Box, had the contents been sent through the post rather than bestowed by the gods for safekeeping.  
  
"My mail is my business," I informed Watson, "And I shall open it whenever I wish."  
  
Watson huffed a long-suffering sigh at me and, shaking his head in amused disbelief, opened his newspaper.  
  
Finally, as a compromise, I resolved that if she wrote me a sixth letter, I would open all of them.  
  
No sooner was the thought formed in my mind than Mrs Hudson came upstairs with the evening mail. It contained two letters, one from Inspector Lestrade - and one from Emily.  
  
Blast it.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
Where to begin?  
  
I suppose I could begin by telling you my life story up to this point, and in fact I could even make it interesting, but I have found most habitual autobiographers to be rather egotistical, assuming that everyone wishes to know such an awful lot about them that they write it all down and have it bound in a ponderous volume that subsequently accomplishes little more than continually reaffirming the law of gravity until such time (I have yet to discover the exact interval, but between fifty and a hundred years sounds right) as it is declared a classic and force-fed to a whole generation of literature students.  
  
So I shall simply adhere to more recent events, such as my current acquaintance with a certain Englishman who hails from the neighbourhood of Baker Street and who happens to be mildly famous.  
  
Most people, on reflecting upon the character of Mr Sherlock Holmes, would describe him as arrogant, overbearing, and altogether too logical for his own good. His ways are rigid, they say, his manner is cold, and besides which quite unsociable toward most people. (Rumours abound, paradoxically, about the fact that he freely accepts as clients Those Women who work from street-corners and brothels.)  
  
I have found him to be quite polite and well-mannered, if a bit reserved towards women. He can be rather abrupt at times, a trait which takes some getting used to, but once one is in his confidence he can be a fierce ally and a close friend (I am put in mind of the series of events which led to him attacking a very large man who was manhandling yours truly in a trouser role).  
  
In terms of appearance he is no Adonis, with his angular build and avian profile, but he is handsome enough to put most people at ease (my father being a glaring exception, but he is another matter entirely), and his neutral (some would say stony) countenance makes a delightful puzzle of trying to figure out what is going on in that tidily ordered mind of his. His best features, in my opinion, are his hands, with the slender fingers of an artist and the delicate touch of a surgeon. Granted, they are as often as not marked by burns and stains, but these are the calluses of his trade.  
  
Most of all, what sets Holmes apart from most men I've met in London is the fact that he doesn't try to impress me with wealth (of which he has very little) or promises of pampering (which I wouldn't accept) or even simple doting affection (which would either make me quite ill or suspect that he was ill). He sets the rules and expects me to follow them - or rather, he *doesn't* expect me to be able to follow them, so he is surprised when I call his bluff. It has, I think, become a game between us - he pushes, and I push back. He forms certain expectations of my abilities, and I cheerfully defy them. It keeps things interesting - or it would if he weren't being so d-mned stubborn right now in not replying to my letters. I don't think he means anything by it, of course - one could accuse Sherlock Holmes of many things, but deliberate and wilful incivility is not one of them.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 1. 


	2. Who You Gonna Call?

Disclaimers: See Part 1  
  
Author's note: Wow! I didn't expect to get so many reviews on just the prologue! Keep em coming, pleeze!  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
I set aside the letter from Emily to be addressed later, for I noticed that the letter from Lestrade bore no postmark.  
  
"He delivered it by hand, Mr. Holmes," Mrs Hudson replied when I pointed out this detail, "He's waiting downstairs to see if you'll see him about it."  
  
"I wonder what could be so important," Watson announced, rather unnecessarily I thought, in an effort to hurry me towards opening the letter.  
  
"Either it will be of some actual importance, in which case it will occupy quite some time," I replied as I slit the flap with a letter-opener, "or it will be some trite manner that I can solve from the top of the stairs."  
  
The note within read as follows:  
  
"To Mr. Holmes:  
  
It has come to the attention of Scotland Yard that there appears to be something amiss at a quaint little bed-and-breakfast located in the countryside of Sussex, commonly frequented by newly-married couples. The report sent to us by their local constabulary indicated that an unknown intruder has sporadically, for the past several weeks, been gaining entrance to the guest-room at night and molesting or attempting to molest the young ladies. As you can well imagine this causes no end of distress to the guests, and the owners of the inn, as well as various officers from London, have tried without success to thwart these nocturnal visits or even find out how the intruder is gaining access, as the attacks occur regardless of how secure the doors and windows are. It has become something of a local legend, and the inhabitants of the town nearby have dubbed the phenomenon the Grasping Ghost. Please advise.  
  
Lestrade"  
  
"Grasping Ghost, indeed," I murmured sourly, "Next thing you know they'll open a formal investigation on the existence of sea serpents!" I sighed. "Send him up," I said to Mrs Hudson, "This may at least be a casual diversion."  
  
Chief Inspector Lestrade, who looked understandably flushed from standing practically in the grasp of the bitter November chill while awaiting my answer (the front door had become slightly warped and did not shut properly), was shown into the sitting room, where he divested himself of greatcoat and muffler (both glittered with the icy drizzle that had collected upon them) and huddled in the chair beside the fire to warm himself.  
  
"It's difficult to hail a cab in such weather, isn't it?" I observed quietly from my favourite wicker-basket chair opposite him, "I regret that you had to walk halfway here before you managed to get one."  
  
Lestrade really ought to be used to my deductions by now. "What makes you think I even found a cab?" he demanded.  
  
"There is, of course the fact that the sleet upon your clothing has melted completely - I know it is draughty in the front hall, and that would have preserved any ice that had remained upon your clothing when you arrived. Then there is the pattern of dampness upon the back of your greatcoat where you sat upon it - quite distinctive, even to an inexpert eye. Thirdly, there is the fact that I saw it pull up shortly after the mail arrived."  
  
"All right, fine," he conceded, "But you're right that I had to walk partway here, and I'm bloody frozen as it is." He glanced over at Watson, who was busily taking notes. "Meanwhile you two have been in here in front of a warm fire..."  
  
"Which we shall happily abandon if your case proves worthy," I interjected. That got Watson's attention (his old war wound had been bothering him in the chill weather), but I continued as he opened his mouth to protest: "Now, Inspector, while you are warming up, perhaps if you would tell us more about this supposed ghost." I steepled my fingers and settled into a more comfortable position to listen, my eyes half-closed.  
  
"Well, I don't know how much there is to tell. The details are pretty sketchy."  
  
"Simply start at the beginning," I replied coolly, "and continue through to the end. Then stop."  
  
I had the private satisfaction of seeing Lestrade look nettled. "Well, it starts about a month ago," he said, "With the first attack, of which there have been four so far. The couple who owns the place" - he checked his notes - "Mr and Mrs Hammond - they didn't want to release any names, to spare the young brides, you understand. But anyway, each time it happens pretty much the same - she wakes up and can't move or scream, and she feels this hand, uh, on her." He looked so uncomfortable that I suspected that this was a severely edited version of the truth.  
  
"Explain," I prompted, though in the back of my mind there was a small pang of something I couldn't quite identify.  
  
Lestrade looked as though he had just swallowed a toad. "You know... touching her. In a lewd way. And all the accounts say the hand is icy cold, not like a human hand should be at all. The first time it happened they thought it was a nightmare, but after the second time..."  
  
I nodded. "I trust you had someone search the place, check out all possible entrances?"  
  
He nodded, still apparently queasy from the description of the 'ghost's' activities. "Locked door, locked window, no signs of tampering. And in the most recent case, there was the strangest clue..."  
  
I leaned forward. "Yes?"  
  
"This one was last week, and it had been raining something awful in the area, but there were no prints in the soggy turf, nor any mud tracked in, not by the door or by the window."  
  
"So, the logical conclusion, of course, is that of a supernatural entity."  
  
"Supernatural or not," he huffed, "He's attacking young ladies, and that is something for which I will not stand. I just need you to find out if we need the police or an exorcist."  
  
"Fine," I conceded, though I believed in ghosts about as much as I believed in faeries, "I will investigate the matter promptly. I think you will find that, in the end, it will be a matter for the police."  
  
"I appreciate it," Lestrade said, standing and taking up his foul-weather gear, "As, I'm sure, do the Hammonds."  
  
I saw him to the door and then re-established myself in the wicker-basket chair to collect my thoughts. The surest way to observe this prowler's methods would be to give him a target, under controlled conditions of course. But there was no-one I would...  
  
"You might ask Miss Cartwright for help in this," Watson suggested, derailing my train of thought, "This sounds like it would be right up her alley, and she seemed to be a help before."  
  
I glared at him. "Are you suggesting," I asked, "deliberately putting her in harm's way?"  
  
Watson, ever the diplomat, immediately back-pedalled. "Well, we both heard what she did to that young man--"  
  
"No."  
  
"I mean, I know those hatpins can be used as weapons--"  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
"And you really have to wonder how she managed to dislocate--"  
  
"I refuse," I snarled, "What you are suggesting is a reprehensible abuse of a perfectly respectable young lady, putting her into a situation where some pervert can paw at her!"  
  
I didn't realise I had risen to my feet until several seconds later, when I saw the surprise on Watson's face.  
  
"Perhaps I ought to clarify," Watson ventured after a discreet pause; "By 'help" I meant 'advice.' It's entirely up to you and her whether she goes with you."  
  
Thoroughly chastened (and likely rather red in the face at my own unaccountable overreaction), I sat down again.  
  
"She's a brave young lady," he continued, "The worst thing she could do is to say no."  
  
I considered the inaccuracy of this statement. As far as I was concerned, the worst thing she could do is to say yes. But it appeared that my options were extremely limited, and if this went awry I would rather it remain unrecorded.  
  
I went to my desk and prepared to compose a letter to her, bristling at the unavoidable realisation that Emily was probably the only woman in London who would willingly put herself in the role I would require to unmask the culprit.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
"Miss Cartwright," said my recently acquired landlady through my door, "There is a young man downstairs to see you - a rather grubby looking creature, in my opinion. I told him to go away but he said that he had a message for you. Now, you know the rules about having male visitors--"  
  
I opened the door. "Yes, Mrs Croft, I know the rules about male visitors. Now, did you get his name?"  
  
Mrs Croft wrinkled her nose as though the very idea of formal introductions had somehow become distasteful. "No."  
  
"Well, what does he look like?"  
  
"He's about so tall, with a curly mop of hair - might be red, if you gave it a good washing - and a bit of a gap between his front teeth, and he's wearing clothes that probably haven't seen a good scrubbing in over a year - coat, gloves, muffler, cap, that sort of thing. A regular street urchin. Why?"  
  
"Okay - tell him I'll be right down."  
  
"You *know* him?"  
  
"I expect that's an employee of a friend of mine. Tell him I'll be right down - and don't worry, we'll talk on the porch."  
  
"Who's this friend - the King of Beggars?"  
  
I smiled sweetly. "Not quite." I hadn't told Mrs Croft about my acquaintanceship with the famous detective, not that I thought she would care. She didn't read the Strand.  
  
The messenger in question turned out to be Wiggins, standing there on the porch holding his cap (his gloves were old, and the right-hand one was missing the tip of its index finger) like he was five years older and more formally educated, awaiting permission to court a young lady. He was fidgeting to keep warm, but I remembered my assurance to Mrs Croft and just wrapped an overcoat around myself to ward off the chill. He tugged his forelock (dislodging a bit of frost with the gesture) at me as I approached, and I nodded a greeting to him.  
  
"'Ullo, Miz Emily," he said in the thick cockney dialect that requires a patient ear (or a well-trained one) to decipher.   
  
"Well met, Wiggins," I replied, "What business brings you here today?"  
  
"Oi've got a message from Mr 'Olmes, an' he said I 'uz s'posta wait for y'r reply." He thrust a hand into the pocket of a coat maybe two sizes too big for him, fumbled around for a few moments, and surfaced with a piece of paper that had originally been folded tidily into quarters but which was now slightly rumpled from riding in Wiggins' pocket for some time - probably at least a day. I took it from him and unfolded it. It read:  
  
"To Miss Emily Cartwright: [How very businesslike! thought I with a smile.]  
  
"A new case has come to my attention, of a sort in which I have reason to believe that your attendance would be most helpful. If you wish to participate, please see me for details. The bearer of this note can escort you, if you prefer.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes"  
  
"At least he said 'please'," I mused. I glanced up from the note at Wiggins.  
  
"D'you 'ave a reply, ma'am?" he asked. I wondered when I had become a ma'am, but that was of course immaterial to someone like Wiggins who probably assigned the title to every female over the age of sixteen.  
  
"Indeed I do," I replied, "You tell Holmes that if he wants my help..."  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
"--you're to stop bein' a silly goose and go see her yourself," Wiggins recited, then added, to remove any blame from himself, "That's exackly what she said, Mr. 'Olmes, I swear."  
  
I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair. "A silly goose, am I?" I asked of no-one in particular, "I wrote her at the Cartwright estate and her father wrote back saying she'd moved out and he didn't know where to, and I can't be expected to divine her new address by reading tea leaves. I'm a detective, not a mystic."  
  
"Well, Oi told 'er that uz the reason I was there, and *she* said she told you where she was living now."  
  
"When?" I demanded. He knew as well as anyone that I hadn't seen her since the soiree (though Watson had told me she attempted once to visit while I was away on another case).  
  
"In 'er letters," Wiggins said, with the unbiased simplicity of the young.  
  
I was glad that Watson was out attending a patient at the time.  
  
"She said she wrote you--" Wiggins started to continue, but I held up a hand to silence him.  
  
"*Thank* you, Wiggins, that will be all." I gave him a shilling for delivering the message and sent him on his way. When I returned to the sitting room, I glared at the pile of unopened letters, trying to pretend that this was somehow their fault. When they made no move to accept the blame I sighed and picked them up, noticing that the last two had no return address on the envelope. Apparently she was trying to be clever.  
  
Apparently it had worked.  
  
I slit the flap and opened the letter.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 2. 


	3. The Favour

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
It was not uncommon for the residents of Mrs. Croft's boarding house for young ladies to receive male visitors despite the Rules, generally the hopeful and deliriously romantic but disgracefully penniless suitors in avoidance of which many of the women were sent here in the first place. My own story, of course, was slightly different from the prevailing one: my father kept bringing young men around in the hopes of marrying me off to one of them (probably just to get me off his hands), generally sons of friends or business acquaintances who, doubtless upon hearing a description of me, expected a blushing bride-to-be or a demure china doll. It should be clear to the reader by now that my father and I were often at cross-purposes on the marriage front, and I found the young men to be condescending and thoroughly exasperating.  
  
The last one was trying to convince me of the great virtues to be found in bearing and raising sons for him when he lost an eye-tooth. You'd think Englishmen under the age of twenty-five were made of glass.  
  
As I was saying, it was not uncommon for the other young ladies to receive male visitors (although Mrs Croft had tried and failed to discourage such visits), but apparently I was the only one in English history to receive two such visitors in the same day. I will however, admit that the two visitors could not be more different in appearance: there was Wiggins, an untidy young waif (whose Christian name I never quite learned) who was by no means short but still apparently had some growing to do before he reached full manhood, and who was always grateful for charity. Then there was Sherlock Holmes, who always dressed tidily except when circumstances dictated otherwise, and who presently looked like he'd rather have his toenails trimmed with a woodsman's axe than be sitting there waiting in the front lobby, still buttoned up in his greatcoat but with his muffler hanging loose around his neck, and with an ear-flapped winter cap perched on his knees, to ask me for anything.  
  
He immediately stood when he saw me enter the lobby, his eyes lighting up just enough to let me know that his presence here wasn't entirely under duress.  
  
"Good evening, Mr Holmes," I greeted him, only emphasising the "Mr" for the sake for Mrs Croft, our self-appointed chaperone, who was knitting ferociously by the fire, sitting just within casual earshot to make sure we didn't spontaneously do something embarrassing right there in the sitting room.  
  
"Miss Cartwright," Holmes replied, clasping my hand briefly in those elegant fingers of his, "Before we get to the heart of the matter... how are you in dealing with ghosts?"  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
How quickly the orderly mind tends to misfile important details - like my otherwise anticipated internal reaction to Emily's entrance in response to my summons. I was, of course, pleased that she was willing to speak with me, but the rest of it... I couldn't quite decipher the remainder, especially the fact that my mouth went dry as soon as she'd appeared. I had forgotten the chief flaw of asking for her help, of course, but I was determined to deal with it the best I could, and I refocused my mind on the task at hand as we sat across from each other, using the busy clicking of the landlady's knitting needles to centre myself.  
  
"Well, I can't say I've met any ghosts," Emily said in response to my initial query, "and you don't strike me as the type to go about chasing spooks, yourself."  
  
"The reason I ask," I replied, "is that Inspector Lestrade has asked for my help in investigating what *appears* to be a haunting in Sussex."  
  
"'Appears'?"  
  
"Either it is a true haunting, which I doubt, or it is a series of perfectly mundane events made to look like a haunting - I have encountered such many times, and each time it proves to be the work of mortal hands."  
  
"All right," she smiled. "So, are you going to tell me any details or are you going to make me guess?"  
  
I outlined the case as far as I knew it, choosing my words carefully when I described the activities of the "ghost". Emily wasn't fooled.  
  
"What do you mean by 'attacking'?" she pressed, "If there was some monster out there hurting young women, I'd bet my left boot that the police wouldn't stop until they caught him."  
  
"From the look Lestrade got on his face, I'd say it was more subtle than a physical assault." I hesitated. "He seemed to imply that the assailant was touching them. Intimately." I'm almost certain my face remained absolutely impassive.  
  
"Oh," she said, "You mean some pervert is groping them."  
  
I heard the landlady drop a stitch in her knitting. I was a bit startled at the abrupt summary myself, but it was, as far as I knew, accurate.  
  
"Yes, essentially," I conceded.  
  
"So, where do I come in? I bet you and Watson could wrestle him to the ground between the two of you."  
  
"It was he who suggested I ask for you help, and in the time it took me to find you, I came up with a possible plan - I'm fully prepared to discard it, of course, if you refuse."  
  
She looked at me expectantly, then smiled again as I hesitated. "Oh, out with it already. I can't say one way or the other until you do."  
  
I took a deep breath. "We set a trap," I said in a low voice, "We check into the inn, posing as husband and wife, and wait for the Ghost to strike."  
  
She matched my conspiratorial tone. "You realise, of course, that you're using me as bait."  
  
"You know I wouldn't even ask you if I didn't think your presence would benefit the investigation," I said quietly, bracing myself, certain that she would refuse and eject me from the boarding house, probably refusing to see me again. The possibility carried with it a certain amount of dread.  
  
"You also realise," she continued in the same tone but with a ghost of a smile now teasing the corners of her mouth, "that anyone who tries to touch me without my leave is likely to get a broken arm."  
  
"Is that acceptance or refusal?"  
  
"Well, do you feel up to the role?"  
  
I considered the question. "I've masqueraded as more complicated things than a married man."  
  
"All right, then. How long will I have to get ready?"  
  
"A few days, maybe. I need to inform Lestrade that I've accepted the case, and I'll send you a note in the morning to let you know when I'll be collecting you."  
  
"Perfect," she beamed, "I'll be ready. Isn't this going to be exciting?"  
  
I was simultaneously relieved and concerned at her agreement.  
  
I soon found out how wrong I was on one point - there is no role more complex than faux marriage, especially in a setting like the bridal suite of an inn.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
You'd think I was the last hope for Western civilisation, as nervous as he was asking for my help. Of course, he was well-contained as always, but he seemed strangely on edge during our conversation. I don't think I'll ever quite understand him.  
  
After he'd left (bowing to me like I were royalty - always so formal!), I heard Mrs Croft stop knitting and get up.  
  
"A new beau?" she probed, "I haven't seen him around since you moved in."  
  
"He's a good friend of mine," I replied. Mrs Croft tended to be a bit of a gossip, and I wanted to dissuade her as best I could with vagueness.  
  
"What did he want, then? Just to chat? You two seemed to be doing quite a bit of whispering, if you ask me."  
  
I sighed. "He prides himself on his confidentiality - and I respect that."  
  
"Well, you know that I'm always concerned for the safety of my boarders, single ladies, all of them - I just like to know who's coming and going. Now don't misunderstand me - he looked a lot nicer than that street rat this afternoon--"  
  
"Mrs Croft, my friend also prefers his privacy - so if you wouldn't mind."  
  
"Oh, at least tell me the man's name, that much wouldn't hurt."  
  
I decided that the time for tact was concluded. A strategic change of subject was in order, since anything I told her about Holmes would be circulated all over the east side by the weekend, probably slightly edited to make it circulate faster. I couldn't put him through that. "Mrs Croft, do you know what some of the women in the market have been saying?"  
  
She pounced on the prospective lead. "What?"  
  
"They say that your husband died of a shovel to the face rather than a bad heart. According to them, you found him violating the marital boundaries with some tart and got rid of him yourself - you know, I would give them a good talking-to, if I were you, spreading malicious gossip like that."  
  
The colour she turned (a rather huffy shade of pink) and the expression that crossed her face (rather like a stunned trout) foreshadowed several rather noisy confrontations in the market to-morrow, which would certainly prove interesting, especially since I didn't actually know of any such rumour circulating at the time. It also indicated that the entire subject of Holmes had, in a single instant, been completely forgotten.  
  
Creative misdirection is a wonderful talent to hone.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 3. 


	4. Mr Clever

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
After assuring myself of Emily's willingness to join me on this case, I headed for home, stopping briefly on the way to send a telegram to Lestrade requesting all information related to the case be sent to me at once.  
  
"You will doubtless be relieved to learn," I said to Watson when I returned home, "that your presence will not be required in this case. I know your leg has been bothering you, and I have accordingly made alternate arrangements."  
  
"So, she agreed?" Watson said as I unwound my muffler and hung it on the coat rack.  
  
"If you must know," I sniffed, "she did agree to lend her unique brand of aid to the case, though I'm not at all certain she appreciates the possible risks involved."  
  
"Just remember Michael," he suggested. The lad in question had got on the wrong side of Emily during her debutante and left the scene with a dislocated knee and a rather specific stab wound from a hatpin.  
  
I reflected on the role I had asked her to play. "I would rather not recall Michael right now. I have to make some final arrangements before the case commences in earnest."  
  
"Well, if you need my help at all--"  
  
"If I need your help, I shall ask. You have nothing to worry about, I'm certain."  
  
"If you're sure."  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
As it was by then late in the evening, I ate a brief repast and retired to bed to gather my energies for the case.  
  
I arose early the following morning, as was my custom during the commencement of a new case, and had broken my fast by the time the courier arrived at seven with a discouragingly slim bundle of case notes regarding the Ghost. I scanned them briefly, and then tossed the bundle into a valise in preparation to pack for the journey.  
  
I decided that I should send Emily an early telegram letting her know when I planned to collect her, so she would have plenty of time to pack by the following afternoon  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
Twenty-four hours to pack!  
  
It was apparent that Holmes had only the vaguest grasp of the complexity or delicacy of feminine costume - else he might have given me more notice. It was one of my pet peeves about proper ladyhood, of course, and made me long for the trousers and loose shirts I was allowed to wear in my girlhood, or at least clothing I could move around in without fear of catching my heel on a petticoat.  
  
Of course, trousers would not fit at all into this case (however much I would have liked them to), so I recruited my room-mate and my landlady to help me carefully man-handle the crepes, chiffons, silks and such that I would probably need for two days (which comes to an amazing volume of clothes for a young lady) into more portable forms so that they would not be ruined by journey's end. When at last we had secured the valises so they would not feel inclined to explode under the strain, I had dodged forty-seven separate probes about my "family friend" (for so I had described Holmes to explain why I was going away for two days with him on twenty-four hours' notice), it was late the following morning, and I was in a foul mood, mainly because I had not yet had a chance to properly break my fast and partially because I had cut my finger on the exposed end of one of the whalebone stays in the spare corset I'd planned to pack.  
  
I was just about to feast on a slice of marmalade toast and a glass of orange juice when Mrs Croft advised me that a hansom had just pulled up.  
  
"I'll tell him you aren't quite ready," she added in response to the look I offered her.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs Croft," I said, and tore into the toast.  
  
My mood was not helped by the fact that when I finally went out to meet the cab, having securely bundled myself against the foul weather, the interior was empty but for those items of my luggage that wouldn't fit on the roof-rack.  
  
"He didn't even have the common decency to come get me himself," I murmured, mainly to myself but partially to the cabby holding open the door to the vehicle, "He sent an empty cab. Of all the..."  
  
"'E prob'ly dint think both o you'd fit in th' cab, wot with all the luggage y'got," the cabby drawled.  
  
I turned sharply to chastise the cabby for his insolence, but before I could say a word Holmes winked at me from the shadow between the brim of his cap and the top edge of his muffler. He was flushed from the cold wind, and I could tell that he was smiling rather cheekily, despite the fact that the muffler was pulled up nearly to his nose.  
  
"'Elp you oop, marm?" he offered, holding out his hand.  
  
Apparently he'd decided he was going to be Mr Clever today.  
  
I sighed in amused annoyance as I let him help me into the cab. Before he shut the door I leaned back out and grabbed the tail of his worn muffler and dragged him back.  
  
"You're going to pay dearly for this, Holmes," I assured him good-naturedly.  
  
"Oh, Oi've no doubt o' that, marm," he replied, then abruptly dropped the cockney accent and lowered his voice, "I believe I told you to pack for only two days."  
  
"This *is* two days' worth of clothing for a woman."   
  
He looked at me askance.  
  
"Ask any woman," I added, and shut the door..  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
Personally, I thought masquerading as a cabby was a rather clever diversion. However, when I saw the mood Emily was in when she finally emerged from the boarding-house, I reflected that being clever might well get me injured. I was certain that a day would be more than sufficient time for her to get packed – after all I had gathered all the things I estimated I would need on the trip in an afternoon, with room left over for my violin, in three valises. I was certain Emily had grossly over-packed, despite her assurance that this was average for a young woman.  
  
During a brief stop back at Baker Street – during which interval I added my own belongings to the hansom with the help of the genuine (and rather bemused) cabby – Emily was kind enough to educate me otherwise.  
  
Watson had at least the good grace to keep out of the middle of it, though at one point he gave me an amused look that, in hindsight, ought to have invited further discussion of the planned masquerade at the bed and breakfast. As it was, I was more concerned with the upcoming investigation, and it never once occurred to me.   
  
Once the hansom was fully laden, Emily and I set off for Victoria Station, where we would catch the 12.05 to Sussex.  
  
"We should have a fair journey ahead of us," I said as the cab started moving, "Which gives us plenty of time to discuss my plan. Now – first of all, we check into the bed and breakfast under the name of Baker – John and Mary, recently married, and looking forward to a quiet honeymoon in the country. According to the notes Lestrade sent to me, the bedroom in question is on the ground floor, with an adjoining study of sorts, which will of course include a number of possible entry points for the attacker, but it should otherwise suit our purposes perfectly. Now, we'll start by—" I stopped short, noticing a slightly dangerous silence coming from her half of the cab. I looked up from the packet of notes I'd been consulting. "Is something wrong?" I asked, after a tactful pause. Though I was not as adept at reading the female mood as Watson was, the look Emily was shooting at me across the cab from just under the brim of her hat and some distance above her folded arms translated quite clearly.  
  
"I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might want some say in any of this," she said, rather sharply.  
  
It hadn't, of course. Watson had never asked (let alone demanded) any input on the details of such setups, but of course I'd momentarily forgotten with whom I was currently dealing. "Consider me reprimanded," I said flatly, unenthusiastic about the idea of accepting outside input on what I felt was a perfectly good plan, "Now, what is it you would like to contribute?"  
  
"I want to be *Clarissa* Baker, for a start."  
  
"Ah yes. After your beloved aunt, I presume?"  
  
"Of course. I never liked the name Mary in any case."  
  
"I think it's a perfectly reasonable name," I replied, a bit defensively, "After all, it's commonplace enough not to draw undue attention because of novelty."  
  
"I like Clarissa better."  
  
"Fine," I sighed, "John and *Clarissa* Baker, newly married, looking forward to a quiet honeymoon in the country—"  
  
"So we'll be from London, then?"  
  
I looked back up from my notes, my patience starting to wear thin.  
  
"Yes," I said, "We'll be from London."  
  
"That makes sense," she replied casually, "I don't think country folk would go elsewhere in the country to find someplace special for their honeymoon."  
  
"No," I said, "They wouldn't. May I continue?"  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
I returned my attention to my notes. "As I said, the bedroom is on the ground floor – apparently it's a refurbished spare room of some sort, with an adjoining study—"  
  
"Are you expecting us both to sleep there?"  
  
The question was a valid one, to which I had given much consideration. "If you mean will we be sharing the bed, the answer, of course, is no. You needn't be concerned about that. You will be sleeping in the bed, and I will arrange or improvise other accommodations for myself." I glanced up at her. "I trust that will be amenable."  
  
"Of course." A look of amusement crept across her face.  
  
"What?" I asked.  
  
"Nothing," she said blithely, "You're probably just a bit flushed from the cold."  
  
Aha. She apparently thought the question of sleeping arrangements had embarrassed me. It would take much more than that, if such was her goal.  
  
"Yes," I said simply, "I had to return the muffler to the cabby, after all."  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
He was blushing, despite anything he said to the contrary – I knew cold-chapping and I knew blushing, growing up the way I did – but of course if I corrected him he would only dig in his heels. Of course my enquiry about the sleeping arrangements was perfectly valid – I preferred to know ahead of time how far he wished to take the masquerade and whether I had to make any personal adjustments (mine or his – I had grown fond of him and I really didn't want to have to dislocate anything on suspicion of impropriety).  
  
Once we'd arrived at the train station, I had a fair idea of the direction in which he planned to take the investigation. John Baker, a banker, and his new bride Clarissa Baker would check in to the bed and breakfast for their honeymoon, and working under that ruse Holmes and I would take stock of the dramatis personae to be found living and working there, comparing notes whenever possible.  
  
"Remember your role," he concluded, "it is important that the culprit does not suspect either of us to be other than we seem to be: a newly wedded husband and wife visiting the countryside."  
  
I sighed. "I know how to act demure and ladylike."  
  
"Then you would do well to act the part," he said with a slight smile that supplied an otherwise unspoken *for once*.  
  
I smirked and promptly immersed myself in the lessons Mrs Weaver had so studiously attempted to instill in me, timing my opening scene to the instant he opened the cab door.  
  
"Oh, John, darling, isn't this exciting?" I gushed, hands clasped in front of my bosom, "I've never been to the country before – I heard the scenery is simply lovely this time of year!"  
  
I was gratified to see Holmes stop short with one leg outside the cab, staring hard at me in what might have been shock or simple lack of equilibrium. It took him two full seconds to recover and adapt.  
  
"I would offer nothing less to my beloved bride," he replied, achieving the character of proud husband within three words. He took my hand and helped me down from the cab, motioning to the porter as he did so. While our respective luggage was being transferred to the waiting train, he added sotto voce, "Tell me you're not going to act like that the whole time we're there."  
  
"Don't you remember whose idea this was?" I returned sweetly, also sotto voce.  
  
"Please," he said, with the tiniest note of pleading in his voice (not that he would ever stoop to begging).  
  
"Oh, all right," I conceded, "I think I'd get sick to my stomach if I had to act like that all weekend in any case."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 4. 


	5. History, Hatpins, and Honeybunch

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
Insufferable woman!  
  
Though I could not prove that she was acting contrary to my suggestions about her role, I got the distinct feeling that she was taunting me, especially after she'd made a point of criticizing so many elements of my carefully orchestrated plan. However, it was far too late to change my mind now – we were already on the train, making our way to Sussex, and I could hardly be sharp with her now, while she sat across from me in the coach, reading serenely from, I discovered, a volume on modern physics. One thing I could say to her credit was that she never ceased to surprise me. I swallowed my vexation and said not a word to her till we had arrived, which made for a very long train ride.  
  
Upon our arrival in the southern countryside – the very region of Sussex, incidentally, where I would eventually choose to retire at the end of my long career – we took a hansom to the inn in question and assumed our respective roles. To my private chagrin, I was still "darling", but at least "Clarissa" was not as fawning and soppy as she had been at Victoria Station.  
  
The inn itself was actually a venerable country manor, possibly built around the turn of the 1800s or not long after, with carefully trimmed hedges at the front - the two such that greeted us on the walk to the front porch had apparently been sculpted to resemble lions or some similar beast, though the guardians lost some of their menace when dripping with ice. Further exploration revealed a lovingly tended flower garden and accompanying hothouse in the backyard. Clearly at least one of the Hammonds had chosen as a hobby the continued beautification of the property, though of course this would be in vain if this supposed ghost succeeded in discouraging any guests.  
  
The inn and surrounding grounds were tidily managed by William and Dorothea Hammond, a venerable and respectable couple in their seventies, of whom the former was rather deaf and could only communicate effectively with the use of an ear trumpet and the latter suffered from arthritis in her hands. Mr. Hammond's Scottish heritage was betrayed by the slight burr to his speech, whilst Mrs. Hammond I suspected to be native English. I asked them (Mrs Hammond, actually, since I felt uncomfortable shouting at Mr Hammond, regardless of his handicap) about the manor under the guise of idle curiosity but actually to establish a frame of reference from which Emily and I would subsequently work. The history of the place, as related to us by Mrs Hammond over a leisurely luncheon, ran thus: The Hammonds had owned the house since shortly after they'd married, purchased with a sum that Mr Hammond had conscientiously saved up while they were courting so that he and his bride would have a nice place to stay and raise their family. Their children (one son, one daughter) had long since grown up and left to start families of their own, but the Hammonds couldn't bear to part with the house, so they decided after some discussion to rent out rooms to boarders, who had increasingly been newlyweds on honeymoon. The income was not quite enough to properly pay the staff – Horatio, a widowed butler whose duties were increasingly more involved in helping the Hammonds personally with everyday tasks rather than with maintaining the household in general; Timothy and Cordelia Fairfax, a married couple of middle age who served as gardener and housekeeper respectively, and the Fairfaxes' nineteen-year-old son Alexander, who was apprenticed to Horatio and entrusted with those tasks to which Horatio himself could not attend – but the Hammonds had formed close friendships with all of them over the years, so that they were happy to help out in exchange for room and board, plus whatever modest sums the Hammonds could pay.  
  
"Of course," Mrs Hammond said as she finished, "Not many people come around anymore, not since the Ghost showed up. William and I are just tickled that you'd like to stay with us, you and your wife, but I still feel obligated to warn you about the danger."  
  
"Oh, we've heard all the stories," Emily smiled beside me, fully in-character as Clarissa, "but ghosts belong in faerie tales and novels by people like Bram Stoker. They're not real, and if a dead man came up to me trying to scare me, I think I'd kick him." Her tone was light and flippant, a charming feint at whistling past the graveyard. I wondered how much of it was acting and how much was genuine.  
  
"Exactly what I say," I rejoined, my face starting to hurt from the cheery façade I'd assumed, "And if a dead man tried to attack my darling Clarissa, he'd have to get through me." I felt her hand briefly touch mine under the table at which we ate, a gesture of reassurance to be sure – it was almost as if she was trying to tell me that she'd be all right, no matter how this turned out. Not that I was the least bit worried about her – I expected, rather, that she was quite serious about defending herself from this spectral attacker.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
I was starting to wonder how long Holmes could go on grinning like a buffoon, under the pretense that this was now newly-married men were supposed to act in order to show how deliriously happy they were with their marital selection. On the other hand, I suspected that he was rather high-strung by the whole affair, between pretending to be married and the prospect that he was going to be solely responsible for defending me from some villain. I confirmed this theory when I touched his hand and found said hand balled into a fist under the table. I think my touch made him subconsciously aware that he was doing it, because the hand uncurled almost immediately.  
  
This is not to say that I was looking forward to staying there with anything short of unease – I didn't believe in ghosts but I did believe in the darkness in men's hearts, and I suspected that whomever the culprit happened to be, he would have to be quite a villain to traumatize young ladies who were rather less worldly than my Aunt Clarissa, for example. Whatever his motive, it would have to be very compelling, or else he would be in very sad shape by the time the police arrived.  
  
But this was only my opinion at the moment.  
  
As we finished eating, Alexander arrived to clear the table.  
  
"I expect you'll want to see your room and get settled then," Mrs Hammond announced brightly, as if to take the edge off the previous topic of discussion, "You'll find it very cozy, I promise." Her smile slipped, just a notch, as she completely failed to add, "as long as you forget about the Ghost." What she did say was, "I hope you're comfortable while you're here."  
  
"I for one would like that very much," Holmes said, standing and tossing his napkin onto the table for Alexander to pick up, "Just lead the way, Mrs Hammond."  
  
A sound that proved to be Alexander dropping a fork caused me to glance back as I followed Holmes and Mrs Hammond out of the dining room. The look he gave me lasted only an instant, but I read a plea in it. Did he know something? Was he in danger? Were Holmes and I in danger? It was difficult to tell for certain, and I dared not question the young man in case it drew unwelcome attention to him or to us. As Alexander vanished into the kitchen, his bussing complete, I turned and hurried to catch up with my companions.  
  
As far as bedrooms went, the one where Mrs Hammond expected my "husband" and me to sleep tidily straddled the line between cozy and spacious. Against the left wall was a curtained canopy bed, large enough to sleep man and wife, facing a gaping, unlit fireplace and the connecting door into the study. In the wall directly across from the hall door was a small window, possessing both curtains and locking shutters, looking out onto the garden through a delicate veil of frost-patterns on the glass. The bed was flanked by two bed-tables, and against the wall near us was a large, empty wardrobe, smelling of pine and camphor. Mrs Hammond left us to get settled  
  
Were we actually in the throes of newly wedded bliss, I expected that Holmes and I could probably coexist in such a setting for five minutes before we killed each other. As for John and Clarissa Baker, they needed to get unpacked, and I needed to see what the damage to my clothing was from the hasty packing. Our luggage (mostly mine) was arranged tidily at the foot of the bed. As I reached for one of my valises, Holmes abruptly reached out and took my wrist. I straightened up in surprise, and he held up my hand, with the sticking plaster on the pad of my index finger.  
  
"Hatpin?" he asked.  
  
"Packing incident," I replied tartly but not unkindly, "I don't expect you'd be interested in the details, though, considering that it was largely your fault."  
  
He appeared to turn this over that analytical mind of his, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.  
  
"I wasn't even th…" he began, but then stopped with a frown. He began afresh. "You may be happy to note that I have entirely given up all hope of ever understanding you."  
  
"Glad to hear it," I replied sweetly, "Now come along, honeybunch, we have unpacking to do."  
  
He ground his teeth. "I have also decided that I vastly prefer 'darling' to 'honeybunch'- if you *must* call me by a pet name during this farce."  
  
"Anything you say, darling," I replied, thoroughly enjoying myself.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 5. 


	6. Windows of opportunity

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
While Emily busied herself with unpacking (I was amazed at the volume of clothing that that woman unfurled from her luggage, like a stage magician producing yards of cloth from the hat of an unsuspecting bystander), I took it upon myself to explore the study. I had seen almost immediately the impracticality of both of us sharing that single bedroom, as it was indeed cozy – perfect for a married couple but quite unsuited for my purposes in this case.  
  
The study was half again the size of the adjoining bedroom, with three of its walls lined with shelves bearing dusty tomes of varying degrees of interest, most of them literature or philosophy. Against the wall beneath the window was a writing-desk and chair. The one wall bare of books was instead dominated by another fireplace; the ashes and half-cremated logs still within and the presence of the connecting door between the study and the bedroom suggested that the original owner of the bedroom was a great lover of reading and frequently spent many long hours ensconced within.  
  
In the middle of the room and directly in front of the fireplace was a well-used sofa, its cushions beginning to sag from many years' worth of sitting. Nearer to the fireplace was a wing-backed chair, with its accompanying footrest, both newer than the sofa but beginning to show signs of wear. The chair and footrest were positioned so that the devoted reader could warm his feet before the fire on cold evenings, such as this one was likely going to be.  
  
As I was not unaccustomed to spending long nights sitting in my own study, I decided that this study would suffice as a post from which I could keep watch over the bedroom and my volunteer tonight. To make sure I had covered every detail in my initial examination, I checked the window and its thumb-latch. Both were in good condition, and neither the latch nor the sash showed any signs of tool-marks or tampering or any kind, nor were there scuff-marks on the sill where anyone might have stepped on it to gain entry. Adding to the puzzle was a row of prickly hedges immediately below the window, which would certainly have presented some difficult to any cat-burglar who did not have great ingenuity  
  
I made sure the window was locked and returned to the bedroom, where Emily was halfway through hanging up a number of dresses in the wardrobe. I conceded silently that perhaps my earlier judgment of her luggage was a bit premature, as I saw only the expected number of full outfits that society decreed that a well-dressed woman required for the day – the morning dress, the day dress, and the dinner dress – multiplied by two days. The difficulty, of course, had been in the sheer volume of fabric, plus whatever arcane devices were required to accompany or augment the feminine wardrobe.  
  
The details were, so I believed, none of my concern.  
  
I opened the curtains (which I remembered being closed before) and examined the bedroom window, which was guarded by the continuation of the same prickly hedges. It, too, showed no signs of forced entry.  
  
"Do you see him outside?" Emily asked from the wardrobe.  
  
I turned. "Do I see whom outside?" I asked, and then started looking for anyone amiss out the window.  
  
"I guess it's the gardener, Mr Fairfax. I saw him earlier when we visited the backyard, and he seemed to show an inordinate interest in me."  
  
I paused in my search and glanced over my shoulder at her. "Inordinate how?"  
  
She looked more than a bit disgusted. "He was staring at me, but it was like… well, it wasn't the sort of look a gentleman offers to a lady, married or not. It made my skin crawl. I don't know how the Hammonds haven't seen anything like it before."  
  
"Was he outside just now, while I was in the study?" I asked.  
  
"I saw him going out to the hothouse a few minutes ago, but he was looking around like he didn't want anyone to see him. I shut the curtains in case he tried to peek in."  
  
"Well, keep your wits about you," I advised her, "He may bear watching, but just remember that people can be ill-mannered without meaning any harm."  
  
"All right, but I'm keeping the curtains shut from now on, if it's all the same to you." She sighed and returned to her unpacking (of which she appeared to have only her unmentionables remaining), while I obliged her wishes and shut the curtains. "Did you find anything interesting in the study?"  
  
"The bad news is that I've found no signs of past forced entry – no tool-marks or suspicious scratches or scuff-marks – by either this window or the one in the study, so we can safely eliminate those routes of entry if we make certain to lock both of them tonight."  
  
"Do you have any good news, then?"  
  
"I did find a place from which to keep watch tonight. The chair before the fireplace seems well-suited for a comfortable vigil."  
  
She managed a faint smile. "Just don't go falling asleep while you're on watch."  
  
"I won't," I reassured her, "You have my word upon that."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 6. 


	7. Coffee and Complications

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
He was right, of course. Just going on a hunch was a bad way to investigate a case – but Mr Fairfax made me feel so uneasy that I assumed he'd make the ideal suspect in a situation like this. Well, as my Aunt Clarissa once told me, when you ASSUME you make an ASS out of U and ME, so I resolved to keep an open mind until all of the facts were unearthed.  
  
The remainder of the day was relatively uneventful. I learned through casual conversation that Mr Fairfax frequently cultivated flowers in the hothouse outside of their usual growing season, in order to occasionally surprise the Hammonds with a centerpiece (of the sort that greeted us over dinner) or to present to Cordelia in order to brighten up the gloomy November (Holmes and I witnessed the fruits of a previous such gift tucked into a vase in the parlour during tea). I made a mental note that Holmes or I would investigate the hothouse further for any exotic plants, though of course Mr Fairfax didn't mention any such specimens. It started raining around seven, as we were starting dinner - a persistent, sheeting precipitation that soon turned to sleet, so that by the time coffee was served the weather was quite hostile to any prospective outside intruders. I had never much developed a taste for coffee myself – it did not help that this particular brew was slightly bitter – so I discreetly sidestepped taking more than a single sip by engaging myself thoroughly in the conversation. Horatio had, contrary to most social conventions, been invited to join us for coffee, though the Fairfaxes did not imbibe.  
  
"I expect any ghosts would thoroughly enjoy this sort of weather," I remarked brightly as the sleet pummeled noisily at the roof, "After all, don't they usually come out during storms?"  
  
"Well, if ghosts *did* exist," my "husband" replied, "I should think they'd have better things to do than groan and rattle their chains at people, regardless of the weather."  
  
"I for one don't believe in ghosts," Horatio added, with the nasal tones that indicated that the weather was having an adverse affect on his sinuses, "Just because the fire goes out doesn't mean we have spooks about."  
  
"Does the fire always go out when this happens?" Holmes asked.  
  
"That fireplace," Horatio replied, "Has always been rather temperamental. It's hard to light, for one, so one would expect to have a difficult time keeping it alight, especially all night." He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and retreated into the next room to noisily blow his nose.  
  
"Then we shall have to take precautions," Holmes remarked blithely, "In addition to watching out for ghosts. Perhaps faeries are putting out the fire?"  
  
Merry laughter was had all around. As for myself, I was starting to notice what had seemed so absurd in full daylight had (as such things frequently do) started looming ever more menacing as the evening drew towards its close. Not, of course, that I believed that some restless spirit was the culprit – but the more mortal possibilities were still very real.  
  
Young Alexander came in to gather our coffee cups and he paused slightly before taking mine – which was understandable, for mine was the only one that had not been nearly drained.  
  
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he mumbled, "I'll leave it."  
  
"Nonsense," I said, "I really oughtn't to drink coffee anyway – it gives me the jitters something awful."  
  
After another hesitation, he took my cup with the others.  
  
Holmes and I made small-talk with our hosts for perhaps another half-hour before retiring for the evening. On our way out, Mrs Hammond informed us that breakfast would be served at 7.00 the following morning.  
  
For the look of the thing, we the happy newlyweds entered "our" room together, and from there Holmes retreated to the study to give each of us the privacy we needed.  
  
Barely fifteen minutes later, I glanced down and realized that things were about to get very, very complicated between us.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
It was ticklish business undressing for bed in the study, despite the fact that I had locked the door leading out to the hall and securely closed the door leading into the adjacent bedroom where she was. Logically, I knew that the latter door was perfectly opaque and not inclined to come open by chance, but at the same time I was still quite aware of Emily's presence on the other side of it and I had found that there was no lock and, thus, no practical way to secure it further. In the end I compromised by firmly turning my back to the connecting door as I disrobed. I was down to my shirtsleeves and was just shrugging out of my braces when I heard her calling from the bedroom.  
  
"John? Could you come help me for a moment, dear?"  
  
Oh, for the love of…  
  
"What is it?" I called back.  
  
"Just come in here please," she repeated, starting to sound a bit exasperated, "I can't get this by myself."  
  
I had never known her to need help with anything. Her natural willfulness seemed to preclude asking anyone for help; instead she preferred to handle things by herself. The fact that she was asking now demanded investigation, at least for the curiosity value. I pulled the braces back into place and crossed to the joining door.  
  
"Yes, Clarissa," I said as I opened the door separating us, "What's the ma—"  
  
That was as far as I got, for at that point I saw precisely the problem at hand and, being a true gentleman, instinctively averted my gaze. The problem involved Emily standing there in the middle of the room, having divested herself of her dress and petticoats, but she was still wearing her chemise and, most significantly, she was still cinched firmly into her corset.   
  
Stupid, stupid, stupid! I'd had plenty of opportunities to question Watson on what duties would be expected of me during this farce, such as, I realized, assisting her with her corsetry. Watson, of course, was not entirely without blame, for he might have taken me aside and warned me – but most of the fault was mine. I should have expected problems, I should have anticipated snags, and I should have consulted my resident expert on marital matters. Idiot!  
  
"Well?" she said, interrupting my mental tirade, adding in gentler tones that, I expect, were designed not to be heard out in the hall, "You didn't know you were going to have to do this, did you?"  
  
"No, and I'd prefer not having to," I responded, "all things considered."  
  
"The only thing is, if I call for the maid to help me while my 'husband' is right in the next room, our cover is as good as blown."  
  
"I was afraid of that," I muttered, then took a deep breath, girding my metaphorical loins. "Well, there's nothing to be done for it now. Let's get this done as quickly as possible."  
  
She turned her back to me, pulling her hair forward over her right shoulder, and I saw the seemingly endless, tight herringbone column of corset-laces running down the curve of her spine.  
  
In my entire career, I have faced madmen, scoundrels, rogues, and the occasional wild animal – how ironic that the encounter that most made me want to hide was a half-undressed young woman!  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 7. 


	8. Nocturnal visitation

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
His hands were shaking, just a bit. I could hardly avoid noticing, after all, but I decided not to remark on the fact, for his sake. Overall, his manner was very businesslike as he unlaced me, working as quickly as he could, I expect, to avoid prolonging the moment. Of course there was nothing I could say or do to make him feel any more comfortable about it, let alone informing him that he would most likely have to cinch me back into the infernal device in the morning! Instead, I attempted a bit of small talk.  
  
"That had to be the worst cup of coffee I've had in a long time," I observed, and he paused briefly in his task.  
  
"Even so," he replied, continuing with the laces, "I wish you had managed to drink more of it. We both need to remain alert tonight, in case our nocturnal visitor comes."  
  
"It tasted like mothballs," I countered, taking the first remotely deep breaths I'd been able to since that morning. "I know all about suffering hardships for the sake of polite society, but there is only so much I will endure."  
  
"Such as a corset, I suppose." There was, I noted, more than a hint of irony in his voice. At least he was starting to see the humour in the situation.  
  
"You know," I replied, half-turning to glance wryly over my shoulder, "If I weren't so fond of you, a remark like that would have earned you an elbow to the head."  
  
He glanced up, his mouth twisting (through whether it was twisting up or down wasn't readily apparent) and his voice as neutral as only he could manage. "I'm honoured to have earned milady's approval." He returned his attention to the eyelets. "I'm nearly done… There."   
  
Now freed of that modern curse of ladyhood, I took a few moments to work the kinks out of my complaining spine, and then pulled my robe on to spare him any further discomfort.  
  
"Now, tonight," he continued, "before you turn in, make certain that the door and window are securely locked. I suggest you try to stay awake if you are able, and listen for any intruders. I shall be right next door in the study, keeping vigil, so if anything happens, just shout and I shall come immediately." He paused, and then looked me in the eye. "Do you have any questions before we take our respective posts?"  
  
I didn't, so he returned to the study. I set to work kindling a fire in the hearth, both to warm the room and to test Horatio's story about the hearth's temperament. Once the fire was kindled and crackling comfortingly in the hearth, I checked that the door was locked and the window latched and shuttered. Finally I climbed into bed with my physics book to read myself into sleepiness. I was not, however, planning on getting much sleep tonight.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
After I concluded with that disagreeable task, I left her to finish her nocturnal ministrations and I mine. As I pulled on my dressing-gown over my night-dress (so that if anything happened to attract the attention of our hosts, we could at least put forth the illusion that we'd both been sound asleep in the same bed before they arrived), I noticed from the corner of my eye a book on one of the shelves that hadn't been quite pushed in flush with its neighbours. I pulled it off the shelf and glanced at the cover: _Herbs and Herbalism_ was the title. I lit the hooded lantern I had packed, setting it on the floor by my feet, and sat down in the wing-backed chair, stretching my slippered feet out towards the fire, to examine the book further. I noticed almost immediately that a localised section of the binding was weakened, as though the owner of the book had read a specific chapter repeatedly. I set the book, spine down, in my lap and let it fall open where it would, which turned out to be at the opening of a section entitled "Valerian", and started reading.  
  
I do not remember exactly when I drifted off to sleep, the book still open in my lap.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
When next I awoke, the room was deathly cold and pitch black; the fire had obviously gone out, but I had other concerns at the moment for what woke me up was a small shuffling sound, like someone trying to make no noise at all. I remained where I was, feigning sleep and hoping that I was just hearing things or, if not, that it was just Holmes checking on me. No – I couldn't delude myself on that, for the stealthy sound had come from too near the bed.   
  
An icy hand brushed my left breast through the material of my nightgown. I drew breath to scream but my attacker's other hand clamped quickly over my mouth while the first hand grabbed my breast more forcefully. I grabbed at the arms holding me down, trying to push them away, but leverage was not in my favour and the Ghost, whoever he was, bore down more forcefully. In the process, the hand that muffled my screams shifted slightly so that the heel of it was now pressed up under my nose.   
  
I couldn't breathe.  
  
The b-st-rd was trying to suffocate me!  
  
Anger and desperation lent me new inspiration, and I started grasping about beside me, trying to find my physics book, which I remembered I had set on the bed beside me before extinguishing the lamp. My fingertips found it at last and I clawed it towards me until I had a secure grip on it.  
  
Force times velocity… the phrase surfaced in my terrified brain as I swung the book as hard as I possibly could at the spot where I judged the Ghost's head to be. As the book connected, a terrific shock jolted up my arm, and I heard a stifled grunt. I swung again, and those terrible hands were off me. I kept swinging blindly until my numb fingers lost their grip, and I felt the book tumble into the corner.  
  
Not knowing if the Ghost was still there, not knowing if he was hurt, or angry, or stunned, I filled my lungs and screamed with every ounce of strength I could summon.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
The sound of screaming from the bedroom tore through my slumber like a sharp knife through paper. Fear, dread, dismay – all these threatened to immobilise me, but I pushed them aside, snatched up the lantern (which, thank God, was still burning) and launched myself from the chair, causing the book I'd been reading to topple gracelessly to the floor.  
  
I was through the connecting door like a shot, un-hooding the lantern so that I could see any intruders. To my frustration, I saw none – but I did see Emily, looking very fragile in her nightgown and still screaming with such terror that I knew that I'd been only moments too slow, and I saw her beloved physics book lying near the wall under the window (which, incidentally, was still closed and shuttered). I set the lantern on the bedside table and took her by the shoulders in an attempt to jar her from her hysteria – only to have her lash out blindly, clawing at my face. I seized her wrists, but she continued to struggle.  
  
"Emily – Emily!" I said sharply, trying to bring her out of her shock. "Look at me!"  
  
Her eyes seemed to focus then, and she stopped fighting me. Seeing that I was no longer in immediate danger of being blinded, I released her wrists. Almost immediately, she flung her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly with the grim desperation of a drowning woman.   
  
I felt absolutely wretched. It was largely my doing that had landed her in the situation, and then I'd further betrayed her by falling asleep – falling asleep! – when she'd trusted me so implicitly to keep watch on the bedroom where she'd been sleeping – where she'd been attacked.  
  
The only thing I could do now to salvage the shambles I'd made of the investigation was to find out what she remembered of her attack. However, I needed her relatively calm in order to question her, and pushing her away while she was in this state would have been heartless and thus quite out of the question. Instead I held her close – feeling the violent trembling in her limbs, her heart hammering frantically in her breast, and her breath, warm but shallow, against the side of my throat – and did my level best to help her re-gather her scattered wits.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 8. 


	9. Fortitude and Forgiveness

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
How warm he was! How warm, and solid, and comforting – three qualities not ordinarily associated with the Great Detective, but at the moment I could think of no-one I would rather have by my side after my terrifying encounter with the icy hands of the Ghost.  
  
I half expected him to be uncomfortable with the close proximity – considering modern rules of propriety and his own naturally prickly nature – but to my surprise he actually put his arms around me and held me while I regained my composure, stroking my hair with a gentleness that I would not have expected in him until I had stopped shaking.  
  
After a few minutes he pulled away slightly and looked at me. "Now," he said, "Are you all right? Were you hurt at all?" Although his voice was unreadable, I saw concern in his eyes – concern and something else, though I couldn't decipher this second element.  
  
"I'm fine," I assured him, "Just a bit shaken, and it's freezing cold in here, and I feel like I want to have a long bath." I glanced over at my physics book on the floor. "I don't think you can say the same for the Ghost."  
  
He followed my gaze, then stood – deftly removing himself from my arms – and crossed to the book, stooped, and picked it up. While he was still bent over, something else on the floor, something small, caught his eye, and he retrieved it as well. He looked at the smaller object under the light of his lantern.  
  
"It appears that you have taken your pound of flesh from the miscreant," he said, and showed me the item of interest in the palm of his hand. It was an eye-tooth, apparently broken off when I hit the rogue with my book. "Would I be correct in assuming that our poltergeist has been taught a thing or two of his own about physics?"  
  
I smiled wanly, but before I could reply, he suddenly straightened in an attitude of intent listening, putting his hand up to silence me. I listened, straining my ears to hear what had caught his attention.  
  
"How very odd," he said.  
  
"I hear nothing," I replied.  
  
"That is the odd thing," he returned, "For your shriek must logically have roused the whole house – with the exception, perhaps, of Mr Hammond. Yet no alarm has been raised, no-one is coming to see what the trouble is, and no-one even seems to have stirred." His eyes clouded, and then brightened. "And I think I have a fair idea why not." With that he darted like a hare through the connecting door, leaving me in the freezing room. I pulled the coverlet over myself for warmth. In a few moments he had returned, holding an open book in one hand and leafing rapidly through it with the other. Apparently he'd momentarily forgotten about me in his zeal to investigate this prospective clue. I grumbled and slid shivering out of bed, pushing my feet into my slippers and pulling on my robe, meaning to rekindle the fire.  
  
Holmes glanced up at me, apparently surprised that I was still there. "What are you doing?" he asked.  
  
"I'm getting ready to get the fire going in the fireplace again," I returned, a bit sharply I'm afraid, "Maybe you don't care if I get frostbite or hypothermia from sleeping in an icy room, but I do."  
  
I'd inadvertently touched a nerve. He shut the book with a loud snap. "You listen to me, Emily," he snarled, jabbing a finger at me, "I happen to care very much what happens to you. The sound of your screaming was the single most terrifying noise I've heard in a very long time, so don't you *dare* imply that I don't care about your continued well-being!" He opened the book again and found what he'd been looking for.  
  
That stopped me in my tracks, as one could well expect. In retrospect, of course, his behaviour made sense for his nature. How very like him to reveal tender feelings for me, while at the same time yelling at me!  
  
He pushed the book into my hands and pointed out a section with the heading _Valerian_. "You might find this educational," he said shortly, then turned away abruptly and started attending to the fireplace.  
  
I started reading, and found that he was quite correct.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
That I had figured out the cause of my moment of weakness did little to make me feel better about it. Additionally, I bristled at Emily's implication about my supposed callousness; I was trying to solve this mystery every bit as much as – if not more than – she was.  
  
I will concede, however, that I probably should not have yelled at her. What is done is done.  
  
As I knelt in front of the again-cold fireplace, I saw what else had been done. To the casual observer in dim light, it would have appeared that the fire had smothered in its own ashes and, upon relighting it, destroyed the evidence to the contrary. I saw, however, that the pieces of kindling were not sufficiently consumed by the previous fire to warrant the amount of ash apparent in the fireplace. The intruder had been thorough, but not vigilant – else he would have noticed and remedied this. To my own expert eye, the fire had not burned out on its own, but been smothered by a quantity of dust or cold ashes poured over the flames. There were no tapestries or wall-coverings in the room to hold in the heat, so it could very well have taken an extraordinarily short interval for the room to take on a chill. I made a mental note of this and set about clearing away the dust and relighting the fire.  
  
"This certainly explains why the coffee tasted like it did," Emily said from the vicinity of the lantern, "It says here that the root of Valerian has a distinct, slightly bitter camphor taste and smell. And it says further down that it's used to remedy insomnia and nervous tension. So if someone drugged the coffee with something made from this, then anyone who drank it must be out cold. Except…"  
  
I could hear her working it out in her mind. I did not turn around, though, until I had the fire safely alight and thus would have its warmth at my back.  
  
"You drank it too, didn't you?" she asked, a legitimate inquiry under the circumstances.  
  
"Yes," I confirmed shortly.  
  
"So… how is it that you're still awake?" Again, this was a perfectly legitimate question.  
  
I closed my eyes and did not answer. That was, I suppose, all the answer she required.  
  
"It wasn't your fault," she said quietly, "You were drugged. Everyone was. That's why nobody else is coming. You fought it off, Holmes. I'm not sure how but I'm glad you did."  
  
I opened my eyes again. "Not everyone was drugged," I observed, "If it was in the coffee – and that is the only way it could logically have been administered – not everyone was drugged."  
  
"I hardly drank any… and the Fairfaxes didn't join us, so we can reasonably conclude that they didn't drink any either. That leaves us with three viable suspects."  
  
"And our culprit should be easy to identify in the morning," I responded, "considering that you beat him over the head so violently that he lost a tooth in the process."  
  
She smiled briefly. I was glad that she'd gotten over – or else redirected – her trauma.  
  
"So, what do we do now? I don't think I can get back to sleep, not in here anyway, after what happened."  
  
I considered the problem. I couldn't force her to sleep in the bedroom again, in case the Ghost returned with vengeance in mind.  
  
"We will relocate to the study," I said finally, "I will need to question you about what happened, in case it yields further clues as to the identity of your attacker. Try to remember all you can." She nodded, and I continued, "Afterwards, if you are tired, there is a couch in the study where you may sleep. I shall take the wing-backed chair, so no-one can accuse either of us of impropriety. Will that be amenable?"  
  
"I think that will be perfect," she replied, "But only if your fireplace is working better than mine." She relieved the bed of its coverlet and one of the down pillows.  
  
Inwardly, I heaved a sigh of relief. I was well on the road to redeeming myself. To be sure, she had already forgiven me for falling asleep – but now I had to forgive myself.  
  
*****  
  
Author's notes: Everyone who guessed it was the Valerian gets a cookie – any guesses about the culprit?  
  
End of Part 9. 


	10. Evidence of the Senses

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
He was taking the drugging quite a bit harder than I would have reasonably expected him to, and I was starting to suspect that there might be more to him than met the eye. All that aside, I was relieved to find that the fireplace in the study was still crackling invitingly, and the room was warm and cosy. He paused as I entered the half-circle of light in front of the fire, and he took my wrists and held up my hands so that he could examine them in the firelight.  
  
"Tissue under the fingernails," he murmured, mainly to himself, and then glanced up, "You have certainly gone to great lengths to mark your attacker, Emily."  
  
In the firelight, I saw that he also had scratches on his face, which I pointed out to him. He touched his check lightly and glanced at his fingertips, though his face was not scored deeply enough to bleed.  
  
"They are not deep," he dismissed them, "And in any case I do not blame you. You were already badly frightened, and my initial attempt to snap you out of it was… clumsy." With that he folded himself into the wing-backed chair and waved a thin hand at the couch. "You may begin your account whenever you are ready."  
  
I sat, warming my chilled self in front of the fire while Holmes sat like a statue in the chair, his hands folded before him and his eyes half-lidded. I reflected that he was being remarkably accommodating, considering the battle of wills we'd had not much more than twelve hours ago.  
  
Once I'd banished the last of my chills, I described to him, to the best of my memory, all that had transpired from the time I awakened in the night to the time he'd entered my room. He did not move during my retelling (and, to my credit, I considered it a very lucid account, if I may say so). He did, of course, have a few questions.  
  
"You said that it was too dark in your room to see anything, correct?"  
  
I nodded. "After the fire went out, it was black as pitch in there."  
  
"What of your other senses? The human body is a remarkably adaptable machine – when deprived of one sense, the other senses compensate." He opened his eyes fully. "Anything you can remember would be helpful. Begin with hearing."  
  
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the sounds I'd heard. "Well… not long after I woke up, I heard a shuffling noise."  
  
"A footstep, perhaps?"  
  
"It just sounded like someone trying to be quiet. It didn't sound like a shoe or anything."  
  
"No, I don't expect our Ghost would wear shoes to sneak into bedrooms… perhaps slippers of some sort. Pray continue. Did he say anything or make any other vocalisations?"  
  
"Only when I hit him with my book."  
  
"So I would reasonably expect. Did he cry out?"  
  
"No… it was more of a grunt than a cry. And not long after that I was screaming, so I didn't hear anything more."  
  
"Are you certain?"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure!" I snapped, but then forced myself to relax. He was just doing his job, after all. I sank back into the warmth of the coverlet.  
  
"We shall move on, then," he said quietly, "If you remember any other sounds we shall go back to them. Now, did you smell anything unusual during the incident, perhaps on the hands?"  
  
This one was a bit harder. I closed my eyes again, remembering the hand over my mouth. "No," I said, "I just smelled like… like a hand." I opened my eyes as something clicked. "That means that the owner of the hands probably didn't prepare the Valerian, or else he would have smelled like mothballs."  
  
"Very good, Emily," Holmes said, not without a hint of praise, "A very sound conclusion. Except—"  
  
"And if he wore gloves his hands would probably have smelled like whatever the gloves were made out of." Holmes conceded the point with a small smile. "So that probably means that there are two people involved in this."  
  
"Very good. You have raised a number of very valid conclusions – more than I would have expected from you after your ordeal. Let us move on." He looked steadily at me. "Touch." I shivered, remembering those awful hands on me. He added, "Focus on textures, Emily, and the size and shape of the hands and the strength exerted by their owner. I know this will be hard."  
  
I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I noticed that he'd worked up to this one, apparently saving it for last. I closed my eyes a third time and remembered. "The hands were… were average-sized, I suppose…"  
  
"Were they male or female?"  
  
"Male," I replied, understanding that we needed to cover all possibilities.  
  
"Were they young or old, by your best estimation?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Fair enough. Were they smooth or rough?"  
  
I tried to remember… but when I did I felt a cold pit of dread form in my stomach. It must have showed in my face.  
  
"Emily." I opened my eyes to see Holmes looking keenly at me. "What do you remember?"  
  
"It… couldn't be him…" I protested, but Holmes would have none of it.  
  
"Were the hands smooth or rough?" He repeated, making sure to enunciate the words carefully.  
  
"I think I know who attacked me," I said, "But I want to make sure. I could be mistaken."  
  
"Whom do you suspect?" he asked.  
  
I told him. He sat back, digesting this. "I can see why you would have your doubts," he said finally, "But remember that he is one of two people involved with this." He sighed, looking tired. "We shall speak further on it in the morning. I recommend you try to get some sleep if you can."  
  
I nodded and curled up on the sofa.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
I watched her for several long moments, curled as she was on the sofa like a cat. I needed to think, but more importantly, I needed to smoke. I had found that my trusty calabash pipe and a quantity of the strong-smelling shag tobacco about which Watson had frequently complained were an effective aid to deep meditation. My other aid to ratiocination (as deep cogitation had been whimsically called by Dupin), the violin, would have been dreadfully inappropriate under the circumstances – only marginally less so than pipe smoke.  
  
However, I had to keep Emily in mind, so I forced myself to abstain from both for the night. This left me with two obvious points on which to focus during my meditations: the fire and the sleeping form of Emily. Presently, the curl of her hair which always managed – one way or the other – to escape from whatever bound its fellows, fell across her cheek and brushed her nose, making it twitch. I reached forward to brush it away but was forced to take evasive manoeuvres when she spoke.  
  
"Holmes?" She opened her eyes just as I settled back in the arm-chair.  
  
"Yes, Emily?"  
  
"Do you have any ideas about what we should do tomorrow morning?"  
  
I was flattered that she was actually asking for rather than lambasting my ideas, but under the circumstances, I considered, it was perfectly understandable that she might feel a bit off-balance. However…  
  
"How do you feel we should proceed?" I countered, "We have a possible suspect but neither proof yet that it was actually him, nor any evidence which would point to the accomplice."  
  
She propped herself up on one elbow on the arm of the sofa, brushing the curl back behind her ear. "Valerian is a local plant," she said, "which means that it could be grown in an English climate… but only during the summer. But suppose someone wanted to cultivate some outside of its growing season – say, to keep some of the sleep drug available through the winter. Where would our horticulturally-inclined subject be likely to do so?"  
  
"The hothouse," I replied immediately, "But I shall investigate it by myself – the back lawn will likely be a solid sheet of ice after the storm tonight and – with all due respect to your potential agility in icy conditions – I would rather you stay inside."  
  
"That will give me enough time to account for everybody else in the house, whether they drank the coffee or not."  
  
"And, of course, see who looked as though they picked a fight with a stout physics book."  
  
She smiled. "That shouldn't be too easy to miss. But remember we're still supposed to be happily married – how are we going to explain you going for a little perambulation in such rotten conditions?"  
  
I smiled at her. "That will be the hard part."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"You will pick a fight with me – some petty disagreement that will cause me to leave in a considerable huff to take a solitary walk around the premises."  
  
She smiled. "You always ask for the impossible, don't you? Who would ever wish to have an argument with sweet, lovable you?"  
  
"My dear Emily," I replied warmly, "I am certain that you will be able to come up with something by morning."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 10. 


	11. A Family Matter

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone playing the violin over by the window. It was no tune that I recognised, but right now I knew of only one man in the vicinity who might have a violin with him. The melody he played was slow and thoughtful, and put one in mind of long afternoons spent in a library or a study. As I sat up, I saw a clay pipe resting on the end-table, momentarily forsaken in the name of etiquette. It had been filled, but apparently he'd decided afterwards not to light it after all. Holmes, I saw, was already dressed. He was facing away from me, studying something out the window.  
  
"Good morning," I said, inadvertently startling him so the strings squeaked harshly under the bow. He turned.  
  
"Good morning, Clarissa," he said, in case I needed reminding of our ruse, "I trust you were able to get back to sleep after your nightmare?" He turned back. "I still think it was a bit silly, you insisting we move in here, even after I'd rekindled the fire."  
  
Showtime.  
  
"I tell you, John, it wasn't a nightmare," I replied tartly, "I know what happened, and I know the difference between reality and nightmares."  
  
"Yes, yes," he said, waving a hand, "The Ghost. I think the Hammonds' stories simply got you all worked up and made you imagine things. I told you last night that there are no ghosts, and I tell you again now that there are no ghosts."  
  
The conversation, one can safely guess, deteriorated rather rapidly from there until we were both shouting, ending with my loving husband telling me that he was damn well going to prove that I was imagining things because an intruder would have left footprints and if he didn't find any I would have to accept that it was a nightmare brought on my hysteria. As he barked this, Holmes twitched aside the curtain so that I could see through the window the flawless layer of snow covering the back lawn. He arched an eyebrow at me, and I nodded, advising John that as far as I was concerned he could shove his hysterical nightmare theory up his nose. He stormed out, murmuring an apology to Cordelia - who had come to see what all the fuss was about – in the hallway.  
  
"I'm fine," I said in response to her concern, "My husband's being an ass."  
  
"That's such a shame," she replied, "The two of you seemed to be so much in love yesterday."  
  
"Maybe it *was* a nightmare," I said, for the look of the thing.  
  
She looked honestly concerned. I knew the difference between fake concern and real concern (most of the women with whom my father socialised – wives to the last – had all the personal depth of a sheet of paper), and one could not fake it this well. "The Ghost?"  
  
"I think so. Of course, John says it was a nightmare."  
  
"Well, don't worry about him right now. Men can get a bit silly about their wives sometimes, especially at the beginning."  
  
"You sound like you've had experience in that."  
  
She offered me a strained smile. "My Tim… but he's grown up since then. He doesn't go for that sort of thing any more." She quickly rearranged her features into something more pleasant. "It looks like he left without cinching you up. Let me help you with that, shall I?"  
  
I wondered if Holmes had planned to dodge corsetry duty that morning. It didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. What did matter, however, was finding out what Cordelia was talking about – perhaps she knew more than she let on, and perhaps it was nothing.  
  
Once I was dressed (and my waist back to the socially acceptable eighteen inches), I followed Cordelia to the breakfast table.  
  
"Sorry I'm a bit late," I said to those assembled, who were already partway through breakfast.  
  
"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Baker," Cordelia replied, "You had a poor night's sleep, is all."  
  
"I hope I didn't keep anyone up?" I half remarked, half-asked.  
  
As I'd expected, nobody heard anything unusual during the night, let alone a bloodcurdling scream from the guest room. Damn.  
  
As I ate, I glanced surreptitiously at those assembled and was disappointed to note that none of them showed any signs of having been in a scuffle within the past eight hours. My heart sank as I noticed another conspicuous absence.  
  
"Where's your son Alexander?" I asked Cordelia.  
  
"He's taken ill this morning," she replied, "He says he needs to rest and not to bother him. It might be the change in weather."  
  
"Might be," I echoed dully, my appetite gone. "Maybe I could bring him something for his breakfast?" It was imperative that I have the chance to speak with him.  
  
"Oh, you don't have to do that. You're a guest here, after all."  
  
"It's no bother, really." I glanced over just in time to see Mr Fairfax stop looking very hard at me, and I smiled in a manner that I hoped appeared sufficiently vapid. "I insist."  
  
A theory was forming in my mind, one that I would be testing very shortly.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
*My dear Emily.*  
  
The words had come almost casually the previous night. Were they a meaningless sign of platonic affection – or something else? In any case, I hadn't the time at the moment to analyse it further, so I filed the incident away for later study. Instead, I proceeded with the plan we'd formulated and which commenced with our staged argument. Claiming a need for space, I bundled up to go for a not-so-casual walk.  
  
I had no way of knowing how long it had been snowing when I first noticed it that morning around six, but once I had pulled on a pair of snow boots and stepped in up to my ankles, I knew that if there were any prints they would have left hollows in the snow. The fact that this was not the case proved that the Ghost was no outside intruder. Of course, the probability was all but dismissed in my mind, but one must make certain one has considered all the facts and possibilities before one can be sure of a theory. Just such a theory was rapidly taking shape as I made my way out to the hothouse.  
  
Inside the glass enclosure, I found an assortment of perfectly common English flowering plants (such as those Mr Fairfax was wont to present to Mrs Fairfax) and herbs (such as I'd noticed accenting last night's dinner). However, the humid air carried a faint, though distinct, odour of mothballs, which I followed back to one corner of the hothouse. There, I found a workbench, of the sort used by gardeners for re-potting plants. One such specimen struck a chord in my memory, for it looked exactly like the diagram of Valerian in the herbalism book. Lying nearby was a sharp knife, a mortar and pestle, and a small strainer. I sniffed each one, and each smelled of camphor. It was rather anticlimactic, really, but I had to allow for the possibility that only one person ever went in here anymore – which would only make sense, for only a fool would leave such evidence in plain view unless it was in an area in which he felt secure against prying eyes.. And since Mrs Hammond's arthritis precluded her from engaging in any gardening anymore, there was only one possibility remaining.  
  
I could only pray that Emily wasn't planning to do anything stupid in my absence.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
The Fairfaxes lived in a series of apartments on the lower floor which – despite the fact that they adjoined what by rights would be a cellar and which did in fact contain most of the stored and preserved foodstuffs and a quantity of firewood – were actually quite cosy-looking and habitable. Balancing the laden tray on one hand, I knocked on the door which Cordelia had indicated was Alexander's. There was no answer aside from movement within, so I tried again.  
  
"Who's there?" Alexander's voice came from close to the door, and his words sounded slightly slurred.  
  
"It's Mrs Baker," I replied, "Your mother said you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd bring you some breakfast." Alexander didn't reply, so I added, in a lower voice, "I really think that we need to talk. About the Ghost in general, and especially about last night. I think you know why."  
  
There was another long pause before the door finally unlocked and cautiously opened.   
  
Alexander's face was a fright. The left side of it was swollen and mottled with the bruises that had had ample time to develop since last night, his lower lip was puffy, and his left eye was swollen shut. He looked blearily at me with the remaining eye, and he had a general air of resignation about him.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said mournfully, "I'm sorry about last night, but I had to. You were so nice to me and so was Mr Baker, but I had to. Please, try to understand."  
  
I offered him the tray of breakfast – two eggs, sausage links, toast, and a glass of orange juice – and he took plate and glass back to his bedside table. I set the tray aside.  
  
"Tell me," I said, "Tell me why I shouldn't start screaming bloody murder and have you arrested."  
  
He sat down, lacing his fingers together. I was sure I'd find nail gouges under his sleeves if I cared to look. Finally, he sagged, apparently relieved at the chance to tell someone.  
  
"My father," he began, "Did you know that he never gives Mother flowers when the Hammonds don't have any guests? He practically ignores her the rest of the time. I'll see him in town sometimes, talking with the local women… talking like a courtier talks, not like a married man. I don't think he can help himself. He's gotten better at hiding it, but I think Mother knows anyway. Mothers make a point of knowing everything." He offered me a crooked and bitter smile. I saw the gap where an eye-tooth had been until fairly recently. "Oh, he was so happy for the Hammonds when they said they were going to rent out to guests. How could they have known what he'd planned? How could they know what he'd started growing in the backyard?"  
  
"The valerian," I put in.  
  
"Knockout drops," he replied, "Mother made the coffee so the Hammonds could socialise with their guests. Father probably put it in when she wasn't looking. I knew it smelled off, but I didn't know until later…" His eyes started brimming with tears. "He'd get up in the middle of the night, say he was going to the lavatory. One night I followed him… and I saw…" His shoulders shook in silence for several minutes. I couldn't blame him – he'd obviously seen his father doing something terrible, something that no child should ever see his father doing to a woman, let alone a new bride who hadn't even consummated the act with her lawful husband. He looked up at me. "The next morning, I saw Father, and I hated him, and I knew I had to do something. I knew if I said something they'd only say I had a nightmare."  
  
"So the Ghost was born," I said, "But how did you get in without anyone seeing you?"  
  
He pointed toward the low ceiling above his bed, where I saw a trapdoor. "The Hammonds put in a proper set of stairs, of course, when they moved in, but I think that used to be the way people came in and out of the cellar back when this place was first built. I think everyone's forgotten about it, ever since the ladder was removed. I can reach it when I stand on my bed."  
  
"But where…" I trailed off as I performed some silent calculations. If I was right, the trapdoor opened up right underneath the guest bed!   
  
He nodded, seeing my expression. "I'd wait until Father got up 'to use the lavatory', and then…"  
  
He stopped suddenly, looking past me at the open doorway. I turned to see Mr Fairfax – that repulsive troll! – standing in the doorway.  
  
"Stand aside, sir," I said curtly, "I do not like feeling confined."  
  
"Now, Mrs Baker," he replied, in a tone that indicated he'd overheard most of my conversation with Alexander – or at least the parts that directly pertained to him, "This is a family matter, between me and my son. I'm sure you don't want to go starting trouble, would you?"  
  
I smiled grimly. Like hell I didn't.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 11. 


	12. Hell Hath No Fury

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Still Emily Cartwright::  
  
"You're a beautiful woman, Mrs Baker," the words oozed out of Timothy Fairfax's mouth, perverted into something grotesque in my ears, "You look so… pristine. Untouched. Virginal."  
  
"It's no business of yours, Fairfax," I growled in the sort of tone that generally made even the dimmest of my would-be suitors pause. However, Fairfax was lost in his own musings.  
  
"You remind me so much of Cordelia when we were first wed, just over eighteen years ago. The consummation spoiled her, though, even as it produced our son." He glanced vaguely at Alexander as though regarding a nearby stranger who has just passed gas. "Ever since then, I've been trying to find that purity again, like a man who sees the first snowfall of his life and then despairs to see it churned up and dirtied underfoot." He suddenly focused on me again, a frightening spark of madness in his eye. "A woman touched is a woman spoiled. Alexander knows that – so he tries to spoil as many women as he can before I can find them." The spark had become a hungry flame, and I backed away from him, even as he advanced on me like a predatory cat. "Clarissa," he purred as if he had any right to such familiarity, and then forced his mouth onto mine, as he pinned me to the wall.  
  
My emotions fled. Fear, despair, revulsion, all gone, along with, for the moment, conscious thought. As I felt his hands on me, the thing that had chased them all out of my brain reared its head. To call it merely anger would have done it a severe disservice. History, legend, nature – all these are peppered with female warriors. Boadicea of the Celts. Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Artemis the Huntress, who sprang fully grown and fully armoured from the forehead of her father Zeus (how my own father would have appreciated the metaphor if he had any taste for Greek myths!). A she-cat defending her kittens from a bear. It seemed as though all these and more lent me a portion of themselves. No, I was not angry. I was furious – enraged! - and every fibre of my soul seemed to burn with a seething white-hot flame. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, so spake Shakespeare – and Timothy Fairfax was about to taste mine! I bit down hard on his lower lip, bit until I tasted blood, and kept biting until I was certain I'd nearly bitten his lip off. He howled in surprise and pain and tore himself away, not quite escaping as my balled left fist collided satisfyingly with his nose, followed shortly by the fingernails of my other hand clawing at his eyes.  
  
Of the cousins who had shared my girlhood, the oldest – Benjamin to absolutely everyone else from the day he turned eighteen but always Benjy to me – had taught me how to fight, schooling me carefully in the fine art of hurting the other chap as much as possible before one was pulled off one's adversary and dragged home for supper and a good scolding. Of course, due to the voluminous petticoats required by feminine fashion, I could not with any great efficiency get my knee up into what Benjy delicately called a man's "anatomy". However, the same fashion laws that had cursed me with petticoats also blessed me with an alternate weapon.  
  
While Fairfax tried to get his equilibrium after my barrage, I reached up to my hair, to the single pin with which Cordelia – poor Cordelia, if she had to deal with this man for eighteen years! – had artfully secured my coiffure, and drew it out. Of course, "pin" seems an overly dainty word for what generally amounted to a very thin ladies' dagger. The hatpins used by fashionable ladies tended to measure in the vicinity of six inches long, with the "social" end decorated with beads and jewels to go with one's outfit. It was a weapon that had served me well in the past, and now as Fairfax advanced upon me, intent upon his planned mayhem, I held it low and prepared to give him something to consider if in the future he wished to try anything like this again.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
I was halfway back to the house when I heard a ghastly scream. It was strangely distorted, quite unlike any scream I'd heard before, and it was oddly shrill. I cursed myself for another oversight and made haste through the snow, not even taking the time to remove my snow-covered boots as I followed the sounds of mayhem downstairs, reaching the corridor in time to hear another thin, strangled shriek, cut off by the sound of a piece of furniture breaking.  
  
I burst through the door and saw Alexander Fairfax, face badly bruised as though beaten with a one-handed attack, holding half a chair, Timothy Fairfax curled insensible on the floor amid a scattering of wood fragments, and Emily Cartwright, her hair loose about her shoulders, the neckline and one sleeve of her dress torn, her face white but for two spots of colour on her cheeks, blood on her mouth, and bosom heaving as she tried to regain her breath. She clutched something in her left hand which I gathered to be the erstwhile fastening for her hair. As I watched, her face – which was initially distorted with outrage – relaxed into relief. Her mouth trembled as though she wished to say something and her eyes glistened with impending tears, but in the end she did neither. It appeared that the constrictions imposed by her corset were not conducive to sustained aerobics such as might be found in fighting off an attacker. It was likely a small miracle that I was able to catch her as her knees buckled, and – with a glance at Alexander and a nod in reply – lay her on the lad's bed.  
  
"She fought like a right fury, Mr Baker," Alexander volunteered, still clutching the broken chair like a drowning man might clutch a piece of driftwood, "Father tried to do something awful to her but she wasn't having any of that." He looked apologetic. "I didn't think to do anything until just before she stabbed him in the… the… well, manly bits. With a bloody long hairpin. You married a real spitfire, sir. You better treat her right – if only for your own good." He offered me a wan smile, showing me the source of the tooth I'd found in the bedroom.  
  
I was about to instruct Alexander to gather together the other players in this drama when Mrs Fairfax, apparently alerted by the same sounds that brought me, appeared in the doorway. He looked very small as she glanced down at her fallen husband, then over at the bed where lay Emily. From the look on her face, she had already figured out what had happened – which did little to make the scene any less shocking.  
  
"Master Fairfax," I said levelly, "go and fetch the others in here at once. On your way, kindly bring back a small quantity of brandy for your mother to settle her nerves." He hared away. I turned to Mrs Fairfax. "Madam, this young lady has fainted." I did not need to mention the whys and wherefores. "Would you be kind enough to aid me in reviving her?"  
  
She looked baffled for a moment. "You need to loosen her clothing, Mr Baker. Especially the corset, just a bit." Oh, God – not that again! "This happens sometimes, when a lady gets over… overexcited." She faltered momentarily, but recovered admirably. "Didn't you know that? You're her husband after all."  
  
"A medical friend of mine has in the past advised me of such, but I possess neither the knowledge nor any right to do so." I forestalled her question with an upraised hand. "I shall explain all in a moment. In the meantime, would you please aid her? Ah – here comes young Master Fairfax and the rest. Madam, I suggest you take a few sips of that. Good." I turned to the rest of those assembled and cleared my throat.  
  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," I commenced, "I see some of you know the name. I was called in to investigate reports of a Ghost haunting this establishment, and as you can see, I – and my assistant on the bed yonder – have found him. Or, more to the point, we have discovered the Ghost and the reason for his haunting." I glanced in Emily's direction and saw her beginning to recover, her clothing, ahem, duly loosened to allow her to breathe, with Mrs Fairfax still at her side to ensure that she was okay and also, to some degree I expect, to preserve Emily's modesty from any other eyes. I turned back swiftly to my audience. "Miss Emily Cartwright's bravery ensured that the Ghost was unmasked, along with, I expect, the true danger lurking in this house." I glanced over again and saw Emily's dress now firmly buttoned up (though of course the problem with the neckline could not be helped. "I shall allow her to tell her tale." She glanced up at me, met my eyes, and smiled briefly at the honour I had conferred upon her.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
What a sweet, arrogant git he could be! I couldn't help but smile all the same – he must have heard the commotion and leapt with the intent of aiding me, to judge by the fact that he hadn't even shed his snow-covered boots.  
  
I stood, declining Cordelia's helping hands, and stood beside Holmes as I prepared to relate the extensive timeline I'd pieced together from my own observations and from conferring with Holmes(making sure my voice projected enough to reach even Mr Hammond's ears).  
  
"I am about to relate a rather sordid tale in mixed company, covering some rather touchy topics. Some of it is merely conjecture – don't look at me like that, Holmes – but all of it is based upon what Holmes and I found, what Alexander Fairfax told me of what he knew, and Mr Fairfax's own words to me shortly before I had to defend my honour from him, with the results you see lying on the floor. This whole mess probably started not long after Alexander's conception. As Mrs Fairfax's condition grew obvious, Mr Fairfax lost any husbandly desire for her and apparently reached his conclusions about the innate beauty of 'untouched' women – that is to say, virgins." I saw Holmes' expression shift, very subtly, through a number of possible results, one of which may have been mild discomfort, before resuming its original state of studious neutrality.  
  
"It is not unreasonable to assume that Mr Fairfax pursued his newfound 'hobby' at every opportunity. Clearly his desire for 'untouched' women is strong enough to override any checks imposed by social mores. His son Alexander related to me his own observations of his father flirting with likely-looking women in town – probably when he was purchasing his gardening supplies for his work here – while at the same time maintaining a façade of a happy marriage. It must have been quite a coup for him, then, when the Hammonds decided to rent out the spare room to guests… especially given that most of their guests were newly-wed couples. He had ready access to the women he so desired, without having to hunt for them.  
  
"But then how to make sure that he was not caught? Holmes found a book in the study on various medicinal plants and herbs – including a particular plant from which can be made a rather effective soporific and muscle relaxant. He would slip some of this drug into the coffee in the evening and everyone would sleep like the dead, unable to fight him off."  
  
Holmes broke into my narrative at this point. "He kept the tools of his 'hobby' as Miss Cartwright called it in the hothouse, where I found them while I went for my walk. Clearly nobody else ever went in there; otherwise he would have concealed the evidence better."  
  
"But Mr Fairfax is not, strictly speaking, your Ghost," I said, gently regaining control, "You see, Alexander followed his father on one of Fairfax's nocturnal visits and saw what he was doing. Alexander told me that when he discovered how far his father had sunk, he had to do something to defend future guests from future attacks. He couldn't be certain if anyone would believe him if he told them what he'd witnessed. The Ghost was born. His aim in this was hopefully to wake the women before his father arrived, or at least to make them seem 'spoiled' in his father's eyes. His intentions were pure, at least, even if the means were frightening. In the end, however, Holmes and I have concluded that Mr Fairfax is the man who should be arrested in this whole plot, not Alexander. The beating I gave Alexander last night when he visited will be penance enough, in my opinion."  
  
In the end, of course, the police were called (and arrived while faithful Cordelia was patching up her mongrel of a husband) to take Mr Fairfax away. Holmes put in a good word for Alexander, whose only crime was to be the son of someone like Fairfax, and the lad was questioned about his role and ultimately released with a severe warning. To expect any less would have been a pipe dream. Holmes and I gave our statements to the police, of course (though I had to give the officer a brief lesson in manners before he would listen to me), and turned over the evidence we'd uncovered (including the means of Alexander's ingress to the room). Afterwards there was nothing left for us but to pack up and go home. Holmes declined payment for his services in this instance, which didn't go over terribly well with the Hammonds, who felt obligated to give us *something*. They finally convinced him to take away a plant from the hothouse. He chose the valerian flower as a keepsake – how droll.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 12.  
  
To be concluded… 


	13. Fools Rush In

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Sherlock Holmes::  
  
Our train compartment was remarkably silent on our way back to London. Emily sat across from me, absorbed in her physics text (which I might have sworn still had the imprint of young Alexander's face in it, were I the sort to entertain such silly notions). I, of course, was lost in my own thoughts. Many of the lesser events (at least those not directly related to the identification and arrest of, if not the Ghost himself, at least the cause of his haunting ways) had escaped ready analysis. Many of them even escaped proof or disproof by any observable evidence. One notable item which had not been so slippery was the obvious surprise of the other players in this drama upon discovering that Emily and I were not in fact the newly-wed couple we had advertised ourselves to be. Perhaps we had simply played our roles very well. Or perhaps…  
  
No. The idea was stupid… or was it? I was beginning to have doubts, an understandably uncomfortable state in which to find myself. I, whose very livelihood is built upon the foundations of evidence, certainty, and above all logic, was treading into a foreign realm, where logic held no sway, evidence was ambiguous at best, and intuition held sway over a carefully structured analysis of the elements. Clearly I was not worthy of her. I was scarcely able to protect her from near-violation – not just once, but twice! To think that I could have failed to realise the most expedient administration of a sleep drug in the after-dinner coffee, or realise the significance of the odd smell and taste of same! I glanced at Emily, who studiously failed to notice my ambivalence. Finally, I felt I had to say something – and evidently so did she, in that very moment.  
  
"Emily, I wish to apologise for—"  
  
"Holmes, thank you for a delightful—"  
  
We stopped and looked at each other awkwardly, with the same air as one who has just received a letter from someone whom one has earlier expressed a desire to contact after a long absence.  
  
"Go ahead," she offered.  
  
"After you," I replied.  
  
"All right," she said, "I just wanted to thank you for a delightful weekend in Sussex."  
  
"Delightful?" I echoed in disbelief, "What on earth was delightful about it?"  
  
"Well," she said patiently, "There's that fact that you thought highly enough to invite me along."  
  
"You were attacked twice in as many days," I countered.  
  
"Considering the subject of our investigation, that was a risk I was prepared to take," she returned, "And you of all people know that I'm not some defenceless damsel who needs rescuing all the time. I beat five kinds of hell out of my first attacker, and seventeen out of the second."  
  
"That isn't the point," I said peevishly, "You trusted me to stay awake and watch over you last night, and I failed in that simple task. I failed you, and I failed myself."  
  
I wanted this conversation to be over so I could brood in peace, but Emily had other ideas. As I tried to return my attention to the passing scenery out the window, she reached across and guided my face back towards her.  
  
"Are you still caught on that?" she asked, not unkindly.  
  
"And if that happens to be the case?" I growled.  
  
"You didn't fail anyone. You solved the case, you caught the culprit, and everyone goes home feeling safer for it."  
  
"It isn't that simple!" I erupted, having lost my patience.  
  
"Then tell me!" she shouted back.  
  
"I don't wish to discuss it any further. When we reach Victoria Station, I shall see you home. After that, you need never see me again." She opened her mouth to protest, but I held up my hand to forestall her. "Please, don't argue. Nothing you could say will make me change my mind on this."  
  
To her credit, she followed my advice to the letter, in that she offered no argument to my decision. Instead, she half-stood, leant across the compartment, cupped my face between her gloved hands, and pressed her lips to mine.  
  
How shall I describe the chain reaction this set off inside me? It felt as though a handful of flash-powder had been ignited behind my eyes, or like a bolt of lightning originating at my lips had arced down my spine like a Jacob's ladder, sending sparks throughout my nervous system and making the fine hairs on my arms and at the back of my neck stand up. It was a silent cacophony of sensations, a Rube Goldberg chain reaction that left me breathless, the sensation of an irresistible force colliding with an immovable object – to what end? Looking at it subjectively, the gesture likely only lasted only a second or two – but in that space between one breath and the next…  
  
"Emily," I said when I could speak again, "What on earth precipitated that?"  
  
"I've been wanting to for some time now," she confessed soberly, "and the moment seemed right. I don't expect it to change your mind, though. If you're determined to leave, consider it your goodbye kiss. You know where to find me if you do change your mind."  
  
Either she was blind to the fact that I did not wish to abandon her (rather that I expected her to reject me, until approximately seventeen seconds ago) or I had become too adept over the years at keeping my thoughts from showing even as I learned to read those of others from half-conscious gestures. How could I explain it to her? The words would not come.  
  
While I hesitated, the train shuddered and jerked as it pulled into the station and slowed to a halt. Emily stood wordlessly and left the compartment, leaving me to consider the rubble that had until recently been my granite resolve.  
  
I pounded my fist against the seat in frustration. Damn her! Damn her, and damn this whole chain of events, and damn the way she always seemed to get under my skin! Most of all – damn me if I'm going to pile another catastrophe atop the shoddily handled case in Sussex! I was not about to let her walk away thinking that I hated her, nor did I relish the idea that she might come to hate me.  
  
To hell with it, I resolved.  
  
My eye fell upon the book she had left on the seat when she departed – her beloved physics book. I snatched it up and hurried off the train, pausing only briefly to collect my luggage, and waded through a sea of humanity to look for her. I saw her at a distance, picking out the robin's egg blue of her dress as she supervised a cabby loading her luggage onto his hansom. It was too far to see her expression, though the mind's eye offered some viable possibilities. The crowd pressed in on all sides, so that I would not be able to get to her before the hansom drove off.  
  
I tightened my grip on the book and set my jaw. I had told her that I would see her home, and even if I could not proceed along my original plan, I was determined to see her again, on the chance that she would speak with me after my disastrous parting words. Out of the tail of my eye I saw a gap open in the crowd. I dodged in that direction, hunting down another hansom in which to overtake her.  
  
*****  
  
::Emily Cartwright::  
  
What a baffling man he was! His behaviour was so odd on the train – I couldn't even begin to imagine why he would suddenly push me away, after what we'd been through in Sussex. Yes, I was hurt. I had thought that he had grown as fond of me as I had of him – but that just goes to prove how unfathomable and utterly contrary he could be. It was like his insistence that he'd failed me somehow. He knew me, and must have known that I appreciated the risks, and that there was really no earthly way he could have forced me to do something I was not truly willing to do (as my dear father could attest), and that if I wanted to leave after the nocturnal attack, I bloody well would have insisted upon it or walked home. Well, I had given him something to think about, to be sure – that particular gesture of my affection was more of an impulse than anything else, and regret was starting to creep in around the edges – and if he changed his mind he knew where I lived.  
  
I sat back in the hansom as it trundled homewards, and only then did I realise that I'd left my book on the train with Holmes. I briefly debated asking the driver to circle back so I could look for it, but the train had probably pulled away by now, with my book aboard it.  
  
The hansom slowed to a halt in front of the boarding-house, and I was puzzled to find another hansom already parked there. From the winded condition of the horse in its traces, the passenger must have been in a dreadful hurry. I reached out for the door handle, but the door was opened for me from without. I leaned out to see who it was (for the driver certainly could not yet have dismounted) and saw…  
  
"I told you I would see you home," Holmes said quietly, his hand still on the door, and a look on his face as though he had narrowly avoided being hit by a falling piano, "And I have, in spirit at least, kept my word. You are home, and I am seeing you." He glanced back at the recovering horse. "It was, as you have probably surmised, not easy."  
  
"Holmes," I said, more than a bit annoyed, as I stepped down to the pavement, "What do you want?"  
  
He shut the cab door. "Several things, if you will allow me to speak my piece. The first – and arguably most trivial – is to return the book you left on the train when you departed in such haste." I glanced down and was surprised to see that he was indeed holding my book out to me. "Secondly, I wish to apologise if I left you with the wrong impression on the train." His jaw clenched briefly. "I am no judge of women, but I could hardly have mistaken your expression when we parted company as relief that I was relieving you of any obligation on my behalf."  
  
Relieving me of an obligation?! Is that what he thought I'd hear?  
  
"It was your gift to me shortly before we parted that showed me how badly I'd misread you."  
  
A gift? Ah yes… that.  
  
"As per your advice," he said, "I have considered your arguments – particularly that last one. I believe I have come up with a suitable rebuttal for that one, if you wish to receive it."  
  
He wanted to talk. I felt vaguely relieved and slightly disappointed all at once.  
  
"Go ahead," I said. He paused, and then glanced pointedly over his shoulder at each of the cabbies, who abruptly took very great interest in the harnesses of their horses. He turned back and, as if hesitation would make him lose his nerve, abruptly cradled my face in those slender, sensitive hands of his and kissed me on the mouth, carefully as if in experimentation but ultimately quite heartfelt. I felt my knees weaken and I clasped his shoulders for support. So, the logical bit of my brain said, that's how he feels about you. Now what?  
  
Now what, indeed?  
  
He drew himself away and watched me carefully with his grey eyes, as though I was some impending chemical reaction.  
  
"You're trembling," he observed quietly.  
  
"So are you," I replied.  
  
"Fools rush in, Emily, where angels fear to tread."  
  
"Holmes, what on earth…"   
  
"I've been fighting like hell, and I've only managed to exhaust my resources," he replied, "I got into a corner and shored up my defences… and then you had to go and annihilate them on the train. Now, tell me honestly… do you wish to continue along this path? It could get very… complicated."  
  
"Who says complicated is a bad thing?" I asked.  
  
He paused introspectively. "You realise that this is a new twist for me," he said finally, "I shall need time to think more on it." He steeled himself, and then asked, with utmost care, "Would you be available to meet me again Thursday evening, at the café where I first made your acquaintance?"  
  
I said I was, and he looked so immensely relieved that it was all I could do not to laugh. We embraced again briefly, and then he climbed into the cab and was gone.  
  
I smiled. What a baffling man, I thought again, but with more warmth than before.  
  
*****  
  
::And now, a few words from Watson…::  
  
It was nearly seven when Holmes arrived back at Baker Street after his trip to Sussex with Miss Cartwright, balancing a curious potted plant on the palm of one hand.  
  
"Welcome back," I greeted him, "How was Sussex? I heard there was supposed to be an ice storm around there."  
  
"There was a bit of a blow," he replied temperately as he unwound his muffler and hung it and his greatcoat by the door, "Nothing out of the ordinary for mid-November. You may be pleased to know that the investigation was a complete success, though out of respect for the families involved I fear I cannot divulge any of the details at this time. However," he added, turning from rummaging in his coat pocket, "I have brought you back a gift."  
  
"Oh?" I asked. He seldom brought back for me keepsakes of cases in which I did not participate.  
  
He detoured over to the window, where he deposited the plant on the sill, then returned and held out a curious silver case to me. I took it, and he retired at once to his rooms.  
  
To my great confusion, the case held not cigarettes – as I had thought from the general size and shape – but a set of five steel darts, of the sort used by English dart-players. I resolved to ask him about his gift in the morning, but I doubted I would get a sufficient explanation.  
  
*****  
  
[A/N: If you're wondering about the darts, Holmes referenced something relevant very early in the fic.]  
  
Finis. 


End file.
